First Impressions
by zebralily999
Summary: Six-year-old Michelangelo is fed up with how his family treats him, believing that they hate him. He decides to run away to the surface to find someone who will accept him. Things take an unexpected turn and the family is changed forever.
1. Chapter 1

**I've had the idea for this story for so long, and now it is finally being realized. I hope you like it. **

**I do not own the copyright to TMNT. ...Do you really think the person that did would be writing fan-fiction?**

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><p>Michelangelo slowed to a jog, his breath ragged and quick. Soon after, his pace was no faster than a stroll, his feet shuffling along against the cold, dank sewer floors. His hands were both held close to his nunchaku tucked into his belt. He was nervous, not being able to recognize the sewer tunnels he was in. That meant something, considered his father Splinter spent a good deal teaching his children all about the sewers-not a subject most kids would like to learn about. It was also silent and dark, which were two things the six-year-old mutant hadn't had much experience with yet. But he continued to walk along bravely.<p>

Memories flashed into his mind, terrible ones from things that had happened barely a half-hour ago. He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes tight, but he couldn't get them out of his head. His hands curled tighter around the weapons. "Mikey, get out of here!" He remembered vividly, the face of his brother Donatello flashing through his mind. Michelangelo felt empty, unwanted. "Yeah, Mikey grow up!" he remembered Raphael saying, chasing him out of the room. "We don't need you here!"

Michelangelo opened his eyes. He wanted to cry, but he didn't. Ninjas don't cry, they fight. Ninjas don't have feelings. Michelangelo may have been the youngest of his family, but he wasn't the baby. But his feelings were piling up inside of him, unbearable. "You're wrong, Raph. You're wrong," he whispered. Michelangelo looked behind him into the darkness, considering going to back to his Lair, where his brothers would certainly still be angry with him. He decided against it and began to sprint in the other direction, farther into the shadows. Where no one could stop him from being himself.

"It's not like I meant to blow up Donnie's invention!" Michelangelo spoke to himself as he ran. "I don't mean to do any of the things they hate me for!" He turned and ran down another tunnel, not even looking at where he was going. He couldn't see more than three feet in front of him, he could barely even hear himself talk from all the noise from the surface.

The turtle sprinted up to a rusty old latter, both of his nunchucks out and ready. He stopped in front of the latter, bringing his nunchaku to meet the old, unstable metal. It felt good, hearing that clang, hitting something. He brought his other weapon up and slammed it against the ladder as well. And again. And again. And again. The loud metallic echo was perpetual.

How long he was there, it was impossible to tell. But he was there until he could barely even lift his nunchucks any more and his breath was coming sharp and quick. Getting out weeks and weeks of built-up anger and resentment. A hit for every time he had heard "Mikey, go away!" or "Mikey, we don't need you here!" The resonating clang with each slam, even audible over the huge amount of noise above, brought him condolence. Slowly, the noise on the surface began to ebb away. Michelangelo could feel the temperature sink lower. It was getting late, but he continued on.

"Take that!" Michelangelo yelled, putting all of his remaining energy into one last swing. After the weapon hit its mark, Michelangelo immediately fell to his knees, panting and eyes wild. He was beyond tired but feeling much better. The small turtle was very proud of the dents put in those old rusty ladder rungs.

Should he go back now? Did he know how?

"Hey, you! Yeah, you!"

Michelangelo leapt to his feet with surprising energy. "Who is it? Show yourself!" He shouted into the endless darkness, his voice high and nervous. There was no movement, no more words. No one was here in this sewer tunnel, for sure. "Huh?" Michelangelo was confused, he was sure he had heard something.

Suddenly, it dawned on Michelangelo. The speaker was on the surface. A human. He barely even knew what a human looked like. Michelangelo had always listened avidly to his father's stories about the outside world, what is was like. He could remember staring at his father's picture of his old family-Miwa, Tang Shen, and Hamato Yoshi. That picture and the glimpses Michelangelo had had of his brother Leonardo's favorite show, Space Heroes, was all Michelangelo had to go on for how humans looked and acted. A cartoon and a moment frozen in time. He'd always wanted more. After all, how could a curious little turtle live six years under the biggest city in the world, full of humans, without seeing them?

Real people were up there. He had known this his whole life, but now he finally truly realized what that meant. "Maybe someone up there will like me," Michelangelo thought aloud. "No one does down here." And with that, he put on hand around the first rung, feeling the old dirty, dented surface. He swallowed his fears in one gulp. "I'll make a friend. Then I won't need those bozos." He brushed his brothers out of his head and curled his hand around the next rung.

Twelve million people in all of New York City, his brother Donatello had once told him. And Michelangelo was determined to find at least one of them who would like him.

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><p>"Mikey! Mikey!" Leonardo shouted, cupping his hands. A sharp gust of wind blew down the tunnel, causing the blue-masked turtle to shudder. He'd been looking for his little brother for hours. "Michelangelo!" He called once more, with only the ensuing chaotic echo as an answer.<p>

"Michelangelo! I am-I am sorry!" Leonardo yelled. The turtle looked sharply behind him, to the place where Donatello and Raphael should be, helping him search. No one was there. Those ones had really been the ones who had hurt Michelangelo's feelings, by insulting him and chasing him out of the lab, but right now they were in the Lair, curled up as they argued over what to watch on television. Leaving Leonardo - the "responsible one" - to handle to situation before Splinter found out what was going on.

Anger bubbled inside him. He began to stomp down the tunnel, eyes narrowed. He sneered as he thought about how mad Splinter would be at those two if he found out Michelangelo was missing and they didn't care. That'd serve them.

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><p>"Raphael? Donatello?" Splinter asked, striding into the Lair, his cane clicking on the ground with each step.<p>

The two turtles froze, their blood running cold even under the piles of blankets they were huddled in. Their movie almost seemed to mute itself as their mind focused to more urgent matters. _Aw snap_, Raphael thought, _there are two missing things he's bound to notice_. The empty spots where Leonardo and Michelangelo usually sat when watching TV where practically screaming for Splinter's attention.

"Yes?" Donatello and Raphael said simultaneously, turning to their sensei with forced smiles upon their guilty faces.

"Where are your brothers?" Splinter didn't even need to ask, he was already catching on. Their expressions were enough of a giveaway, but he was also aware of the fact that never would Raphael and Donatello have the movie "The Karate Kid" all to themselves. It was a favorite of the brothers and Leonardo and Michelangelo watched it every chance they could.

The two turtles hesitated to answer their father. "Well, you see..." Raphael stumbled. Splinter sighed lightly. Could he even meditate for just a few hours without something catastrophic happening?

"You two are going to go help Leonardo find Michelangelo," Splinter ordered, slamming his cane to the ground. The two turtles sat rigid, nodding. "And you will learn to respect your brothers." Raphael and Donatello nodded again, eyes wide. They were not the least bit surprised that Splinter had figured out exactly what was going on with only a few clues to go by; he did that often. The two scrambled out of the blankets - Raphael pushing Donatello to the ground to get out first - and into the tunnels. Splinter followed them.

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><p>Michelangelo hand seemed to be stuck to the last rung of the latter, his body rigid as he stared up at the manhole cover. He was beginning to have second thoughts. Splinter had warned him and his brothers countless times to never venture up the surface. There had to be a reason for him doing so, but Michelangelo didn't know what it was.<p>

He put his hand on the bottom of the cold metal manhole cover. He could feel the pounding rhythm of cars and the inaudible gabbing of people on the sidewalks. He decided, in his six-year-old way of thinking, that he should go up there. It had seemed for the past few days that his brothers hated him and didn't want him around. Surely, in a place as big as New York City, there had to be someone who would accept him.

He listened hard, waiting for wane of honking horns and sounds of moving tires to tell him that the road was clear for him to walk onto. But there was that one, small voice in the back of his mind telling him that this was a bad idea.

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><p><em>Splish, splash, splish, splash.<em>

Leonardo ran down the sewer tunnels, his eyes scanning the dark shadows for any sign of his little brother. He was really tired, his legs almost numb from a long time of full-on running. But his determination to find Michelangelo far overpowered his want to stop and turn around. It always would.

_Splish, splash, splish, splash._

He turned quickly, taking a new route down another tunnel. He had no idea where he was now but wasn't at least bit worried about that at the moment. He could think about that after he made sure Michelangelo was safe. "Mikey! Mikey!"

"Leo?"

Leonardo stopped dead in his tracks. It had just been a whisper, possibly even the sound of a breeze of wind or a figment of his imagination, but he could swear he had heard his name. He looked around, and that's when he saw it.

His little brother, hidden so deep in the shadows that the only way Leonardo could see him was from the small light shining on him from outside the manhole cover above. Michelangelo often looked happy and lighthearted, but definitely not now. The turtle was clutching the high rungs of a latter, his eyes white with uncharacteristic malice. His orange bandana, stretching all the way down to the middle of his shell, flapped in the slight breeze.

"Mikey!" Leonardo was so relieved. He began to run towards his brother.

In barely a second, Michelangelo pushed open to manhole and dashed out. Leaving Leonardo alone to stand alone in the dark, completely shocked, as the cover slid back into place.

"Mikey?"

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><p><strong>How'd you like it so far? If you hated it, loved it, misunderstood it, worshipped it, let me know. I love feedback and constructive criticism. If I get at least five reviews for this chapter, proving someone actually cares what happens in this, I will make it into a longer, more complex story. If not, it will only have one more chapter. You decide!<strong>


	2. Chapter 2: New Life

Michelangelo looked away from his brother Leonardo, who was standing on the floor and staring up at him. The small, orange-masked turtle pressed hard against the cold manhole cover, shoving it open. Before he heard Leonardo below react, he had scrambled onto the surface and closed the lid.

Breathing hard, mind racing, Michelangelo looked around. The little turtle almost lost his balance as he saw the tall buildings reaching for the cloudy night sky, vying for his attention. The turtle, who for six years had only known his four other family members and the sewers he called home, now felt so very small. But also hopeful. He gazed in amazement at the lights on the buildings lighting up the rain puddles in the street. The street was empty of cars and even he could tell he was on a shabbier, lesser-used street, and just as he was about to run splashing through the puddles, something stopped in his tracks.

"MIKEY!" rang a voice below him.

Michelangelo paused. He thought of Leonardo, his brother standing cold, lonely, and lost in the tunnel beneath him. But the lights and the promise of people who would accept him beckoned to him too powerfully. Compromising, he leaned down against the manhole cover and saw his brother through a gap. "Come with me! It's amazing up here, Leo!" Leonardo had always been his kindest brother, the one he wished he didn't have to leave.

Leonardo looked hurt. "I'm not leaving our master, or Donnie and Raph. Now come down before someone sees you."

"What does it matter if someone sees me?" pouted Michelangelo.

"Mikey, I'm your older brother - "

"By five minutes!" Michelangelo pounced to his feet, emotion coursing through him. "Don't act like you're better than me! You're just a scarredy-cat!"

"Shush! If someone sees you, Mikey, there could be big trouble!" Leo grabbed the ladder rungs, hoping it wouldn't have to come to him climbing out as well to pull his brother back in.

"I'll show you, Leo! You're no better than Raph and Donnie! Soon I'll have a better family."

He saw Leonardo pause on the ladder rungs. The small, blue-masked turtle was silent for a long time. "You don't mean that."

"Yes, I do!" Michelangelo stuck out his tongue and stomped on the manhole.

Leonardo's extremely hurt expression turned into bitter anger. "Fine, go then!" He let go of the ladder, dropping onto the ground. "If you don't want to stay, I won't make you!" He folded his arms, staring at Mikey, daring him to go.

And Mikey did. He ran, wiping away his growing tears. He felt free, splashing through the puddles. The lights shone down upon him and his young mind was full of wonder. But he also thought of what Leonardo had said. Did it matter if someone saw him? Michelangelo paused before turning the corner onto a new street and gave a pondrous glance at the shadowy alleyway beside him, wondering if he shouldn't be so exposed.

Besides his father's tales about his life in Japan, Michelangelo's only exposure to the upper world before this was television: a few VHS tapes they watched instead of the boring news shows that mostly consumed their three channels, and, of course, Leonardo's favorite show Space Heroes. Michelangelo had never really enjoyed it but he'd seen the way in the show that humans mingled with all sorts of other creatures - aliens, monsters, even mutants. The little turtle thought this was how the world really worked. Even though he was unusual, he could still be accepted.

Michelangelo looked around, now suddenly worried, and peered around the corner. He saw a few people, carrying shopping bags as they walked building to building. A car was speeding toward him and before even giving it a thought, Michelangelo instinctively dove into the dark alleyway.

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><p>Leonardo hadn't moved from his spot since he'd seen Michelangelo leave. His feet stood firmly in place before the ladder. He could hardly believe his brother was gone; what had Michelangelo been thinking?<p>

Leonardo felt an aching pain in his heart. He reached for the ladder rung, his heart beating furiously. He wouldn't let Michelangelo get seen up there, or get hurt. But as his small hand closed around the rung, his fingers latching around the cold metal bar, there was a sound of splashing. It grew and grew and Leonardo paused to listen to it. Was this his family, coming to help him? "Splinter! Master Splinter?"

The splashing footsteps had been starting to grow quieter, but then they paused for a moment. "My son!" Soon they restarted and again grew in noise, pounding toward him. Leonardo breathed a sigh of relief as he saw Master Splinter round the bend, Donatello and Raphael at his heels. Splinter consumed Leonardo in a hug. "My son, I'm so glad I found you." He let Leonardo go and smiled at him.

Donatello stepped around Master Splinter. "Leo, where's Mikey?"

Leonardo's gaze fell to the ground. "Gone."

The tunnel suddenly grew even colder. Splinter gasped, his eyes darting to the manhole cover above them. "How long has he been up there?"

"A few minutes. I was just about to go after him."

Splinter looked frantic. "I should have warned him more clearly! He doesn't know the dangers up there! This is all my fault."

Raphael tugged on his sensei's robe. "Let's go up there and get him, before anything happens. Right, Master?"

"No, my sons, you are not ready for the surface. You are all as prepared for it as your brother. I will take you back to the Lair and then go up to find Michelangelo." He lead his sons back through the tunnels he had memorized. Splinter did occassionally go up to the surface, but usually at night to the scrapyards to find parts for Donatello's inventions, but had never gathered enough courage to venture towards food carts and restaurants in the more inhabited parts of the city and his sons still had survive off food they found below. But he had found an old, struggling martial arts dojo where he had recently acquired his son's weapons.

But as they ventured back to the Lair, Leonardo watched the grates above him as the darkness of night grew into dusk. He yawned, having spent almost all night searching for Michelangelo in the expansive sewer tunnels.

Before they knew it, the turtles were back to the Lair. Splinter crouched before them, putting his hands on their shoulders assuredly. "Stay here, my sons. Leonardo make sure your brothers remain here, and you as well." Leonardo bowed in response and Splinter rushed out of the Lair.

Raphael turned abruptly to Leonardo. "Master's pet."

Leonardo bristled. "You and Donnie are always mean to Michelangelo! You are the reason he left! Do you think Master would trust you to obey him and stay here when you can't even leave Mikey alone?"

Raphael looked hesitant. "I know Leo, but sometimes it's just hard to handle him. You're so patient...I'm not."

Donatello dropped to the the ground and folded his legs. "I never meant to hurt his feelings. But he's such a nuisance and he always breaks my inventions."

"Well, maybe now that he's gone you can get more done!" screamed Leonardo. He ran to his room, slamming the door. His brothers were left in shock, as Leonardo had never been seen this angry. They'd always counted on him to be the cool and calculated one, if a little too pious.

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><p>Michelangelo startled awake at the sound of a loud honk. He found himself still in the dark alleyway, staring out at a line of bright yellow cars, filling up the street that had been barren the night before. Michelangelo guessed he had fallen asleep a few hours ago, since he hadn't gotten any sleep last night. It had been late when Michelangelo had broken another invention of Donnie's, and it had been his brother's last straw. Raphael had already been angry at him today for stealing his comic books and helped his purple-masked brother shout at Michelangelo.<p>

Shortly after, as his brothers had started to watch a movie with the volume low - hoping Splinter didn't notice they were still awake - that Michelangelo had dashed out of the Lair. Donatello had been worried at first and offered to go with Leonardo to help bring him back, but Raphael had convinced him Michelangelo just needed to blow off steam and would come back soon.

Michelangelo stood up, stretching. He gave a worried glance to the full streets, still remembered Leonardo's warning that not everyone would accept him. Just to be careful, Michelangelo remained in the shadows, climbing onto the fire escape next to him. He narrowly avoided being seen as one woman thrust open her window to take in the morning sun, but soon found himself safely on the roof.

The building he had climbed hadn't been very tall, but from here he still had a nice view of the city spread out before him. He saw the way the buidlings grew even taller and brighter the more distant they were. His father had told him of the Empire State Building, an extremely tall structure with a long pole on top, and he thought he could see it, but it was so small in the distance.

Michelangelo breathed. The air was dingy and gray, even against the rising sun, but it was better than the sewers. "This is my new life!"


	3. Chapter 3: Friends or Family

**CHAPTER 3: FRIENDS OR FAMILY**

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><p>On the streets of New York, cars breezed down a rather unused side lane while the sidewalks were a constantly shifting wall of people, bundled up in warm clothes and sternly, stiffly making their way to their jobs in skyscrapers that reached into the murky gray sky, in which the rising sun was a smeared orange blob clouded by pollution.<p>

Michelangelo pulled his eyes away from the view of the street before him. He was jealous of those people, with their warm coats and houses, while he sat in the dark, dank shadows of an alleyway. The young turtle watched his breath form a cloud in front of his face and he couldn't help but shiver. Down in the sewers, he had thought he had known real cold. But now he understood. Without his brothers huddling next to him under a thick blanket, heated only by the adrenaline the action movie on television provided them, the world was so much colder. Being cold-blooded didn't help; Michelangelo could barely move and there was not much of a sun to provide him with energy.

After hours sitting stiff in the shadows, the crowds on the street thinned to a couple of lost tourists. As they fretted over a map, they didn't see the young turtle that snuck into the sunlight, sprinting down the street, the two nunchaku tucked in his belt clicking against his shell. He skidded to a halt two streets away and ducked into another alleyway, pulling open a map he'd mischievously taken from one of the tourists' pockets.

Michelangelo poured over it, absorbing the bright, appealing illustrations of the Empire State Building and Central Park that dominated the map. For a second, he wondered where his humble, underground home would be if it was on the map. Michelangelo had wandered far away in the night after he'd left his brothers. He didn't know what to think yet; there was a whole world full of kind people out there, but he still had a deep, aching feeling when he thought of his brothers, even Donatello and Raphael, who had bullied him.

As six-year-old Michelangelo slid his hand over the map, which even for its size conveyed the vast expanse that was New York City, imagining all the friends he could make, he was startled by a sudden sound.

"Hello. What's your name?"

Michelangelo's head shot upward. Before him stood a human, small like he was, decked out in a red scarf and a thick coat. Michelangelo saw in the child's face the bright, innocent blue eyes that he recognized as the same as his own, and from the dots speckling the boy's red cheeks, Michelangelo realized this was the first person he'd ever seen with freckles like he had. The boy smiled brightly. "I can't see you very good, but you looked lonely. Are you?"

Michelangelo nodded, yet he crept slightly deeper into the shadows. He remembered the cautions from his father and brothers about the dangers humans posed to them, and suddenly Michelangelo's stomach churned in fear. Nevertheless, he answered. "I'm Mikey."

"Hi, Mikey. My name is Chet but that's a dumb name. I go by Tyrone because it's cool."

Michelangelo brightened. "That is a cool name! My full name is Michelangelo. Is it cool, too?"

Tyrone giggled, his blue eyes scrunching up as his smile widened. "No, just long and hard to say. Anyway, where's your family? I don't see anyone but you in there, but I can barely even see you."

Michelangelo's smile dropped, reforming into a slight frown. He realized that the deep ache inside him meant he missed his family, the way that Raphael would tease him but at the end of the day still congratulate him when he mastered a new kick or attack, the way Donnie would let him watch as he tinkered with the junk he found. Slowly, he said,"I don't know where my family is. Where's yours?"

Tyrone lifted a gloved hand, gesturing to the west. "Apartments over there. I'm just getting lost right now. That's what my mom's boyfriend tells me to do when he comes over. He calls me 'vexatious', whatever that means."

"My brother calls me that!" Michelangelo said. He climbed to his feet, smiling at his new friend, yet he still remained cautiously hidden in the shadows.

"So it is a real word!" Tyrone smiled. "But what did you say before? You don't know where your family is?"

Michelangelo looked Tyrone over, wondering how much he could tell him. "I ran away. Right now I don't know if I want to go back. My brothers are mean to me."

Tyrone cocked his head. "I ran away once, a few weeks ago, after my mom was mean to me. But she looked for me for hours and finally found me and said sorry. Maybe your family will do that."

"Yeah, maybe, dude." Michelangelo thought about it for a moment, tracing his fingers along the streets of the map of the city. His stomach grumbled once more and the turtle finally noticed the empty, sad feeling that accompanied it.

"Hungry?" Tyrone asked.

The little turtle perked up, his blue eyes illuminated the darkness "Yeah! I don't know how long it's been since I've eaten." A sudden breeze sent Michelangelo into shivers once more. "And I'm really freezing."

"That's okay! All I ate this morning was a handful of cereal, so I stuffed my pockets full of crackers! And you can have my scarf. It's stupid and itchy." He tugged at his red scarf until it fell loose in his hands and threw it into the alleyway. As Michelangelo snatched it up and figured out how to wrap it around his neck, Tyrone stuffed his gloved hands into his small pockets and pulled out a few crackers. "Do you like crackers?"

"I don't know," Michelangelo said. He'd never had any food but worms and algae, as his father Splinter said that it was too dangerous to forage for food in the busy New York streets and so only explored the junkyard where he got Donatello's new projects. The crackers looked tempting, and Michelangelo figured that this boy was definitely friendly. Tentatively, he stepped into the sunlight.

The crackers fell out of Tyrone's hand and crumbled on the sidewalk and the boy's welcoming blue eyes morphed into chasms of fear. His mouth formed a deep frown and his eyes shut tight. "What are you?" he moaned.

"I'm Mikey, your friend!" Michelangelo exclaimed, reaching out to comfort the boy.

Tyrone ducked Michelangelo's hand and fell to his knees. "Get away from me! Don't hurt me!" A cry rose out of his mouth, high-pitched and loud, shaking the tense air that had enveloped the area. Michelangelo looked around fretfully and saw a woman rushing towards them.

"Chet, I've been looking for you! Are you okay? What hap - Oh, what is that?" She had come close enough to see Michelangelo, who now shrunk back into the protection of the shadows.

"I didn't do anything!" stuttered Michelangelo, dodging the swing of her handbag.

The woman yanked her son behind her back, as Tyrone screamed,"Stranger danger! Stranger danger!"

"No, don't take him away!" Michelangelo shouted. "He's my friend, Tyrone! Please, he's my new friend!" His eyes brimmed with tears and the woman continued to swing her handbag, but Michelangelo ducked and rolled away from it in the crowded alleyway. She finally gave up and dropped it on the ground, grabbing Michelangelo by the shoulders and shoving him against the brick wall. He felt a painful thud as his head smacked into it.

The once vibrant colors all quickly became a blur like that of the orange sun that weakly persisted through the gray smog. He fell slowly to the ground, not even feeling the impact, like experiencing the whole scenario from a distance, the world rushing so fast. And then his eyes closed as if he was merely falling asleep.

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><p>Splinter pulled the hood of his robe lower on his face, hoping he blended in somewhat with the humans bundled up against the cold. This was the first time in years, the first time since his mutation, that he'd journeyed onto a busy New York street, in the daytime at that. It felt foreign now, unfamiliar.<p>

Where are you, my son? Splinter wondered, peeking into every alleyway as he passed them by. He knew finding his son this way was near impossible - New York City was enormous and there was no telling how far Michelangelo had wandered off. Probably all the little turtle wanted right now was to be back home, after a cold, lonely night in the city, but Michelangelo had never been out alone and had no idea how to make it back.

Splinter understood that he had no other options for finding his son. He couldn't really ask anyone if they'd seen a small, humanoid turtle with two nunchaku. And he was trying not to draw attention to himself, as well.

As the cold bit against the old rat's face, he remembered his sons he'd left back in the Lair. Leonardo had begged to join Splinter on his search, and Donatello and Raphael had wanted to apologize for teasing their brother by helping find him. Splinter had denied them, knowing having them on the streets was dangerous and they could wander off and get lost as well. He only hoped Leonardo was responsible enough to keep his brothers in the sewers.

As he passed by a shop with televisions against the window, he was relieved to not see his poor, innocent son displayed in high definition, for millions to see, on the news channel, which was speaking about a celebrity in rehab. At least Michelangelo hadn't been seen, yet. But could something worse have happened? Was his son lying, unbreathing and undiscovered, in a remote alleyway somewhere?

No, he can survive. I know he has it inside him, Splinter told himself, shaking the unpleasant thought out of his head. As it faded away, he noticed that the constant mutter on the crowded streets had morphed into loud, jumbled talking and shouts. He sensed the large crowd before he turned the corner and saw it.

Instantly, he had an urge to shove himself to the front of the crowd, which was pressed around a shadowy alley, but he forced himself to casually settle in the back and observe. People in the front were leaning towards the alleyway and trying to peer into it, but it was mostly blocked out by a large white van, both sides of it nearly reaching either wall. A women in the front holding a blue-eyed, freckled child was shouting. "Where's the police? The news? My son was being attacked and whoever these people are can't cover it up!" Her son, his face frozen in terror, added,"It was a monster!" The woman began to shout at the bland-faced, black-haired man at the wheel of the white van.

"Onegai shite inai!" Splinter attempted to push a little farther in, adrenaline pumping through his veins. "Excuse me," he asked someone,"Do you know what is happening?"

"Move it, Japantown! We were here first!" shouted someone behind him, tugging him by his robe. Splinter continued to fight through the crowd, having no idea what he'd do if he saw his son, scarred and possibly hurt as this mob stared. He completely forgot that he was trying not to draw attention to himself as he shoved people out of the way. He was overcome with worry and fear, terrified he'd been too late to protect little Michelangelo.

Just then, the lights of the van lit up bright yellow. The crowd took a hesitant step back and completely cleared away from the alleyway as the engine roared and the driver honked. They spread across the sidewalk, still watching curiously, but Splinter remained defiantly standing in front of the van. It honked and then began to move, and Splinter barely had time to leap out of the way before it lurched forward. He turned around and watched as it veered out of the alleyway and onto the street, one door in the back shuddering wildly before a man inside reached out to pull it closed.

Already the mob began to disperse, muttering about their lunch breaks being over as they stopped the recording on their phones, but Splinter ran wildly after the white van. As the street emptied he dropped down and ran on all fours, and began to gain on it. It took a wide turn around the next corner, screeching loudly, but once Splinter turned onto the same street barely two seconds later, it was gone.

The van couldn't have reached the end of this long street in two seconds! Even if it had, Splinter no longer heard the screeching brakes and rumbling engine nearby, and he had great hearing. Now Splinter was nearly certain that this van had something to do with his son, but it had left no traces of where it had gone. The alleys he investigated in this street were all empty. The van had just...disappeared.

Leonardo lay silently on his back on the floor of the dojo, his fingers laced together on his chest. Peacefully, the growing sunlight pierced through the grates on the ceiling, lighting up the floating specks of dust with a yellow glow. He heard footsteps and his eyes shifted backwards to look at the door. His vision tipped upside down, he saw Donatello, tall and lanky for a six-year-old, amble awkwardly into the room. "Splinter said he'd be back by now."

Leonardo didn't speak. He was still angry at his brothers for making Michelangelo feel so excluded, and he was also irritated at his father for not letting him search with him.

Donatello dropped down next to his brother and folded his legs. "Leo, I'm really, really sorry. I'm not going to make anymore excuses. I should have been nicer to Mikey."

"You got that right." The young turtle looked away for the grate in the ceiling and saw Donatello's hand, coated in grease and grime up to his wrist. He knew his brother dealt with stress by burying himself in work or rambling on about scientific subjects no one understood. "So what were you doing in your lab for three hours straight?"

The turtle shrugged, brushing the long ends of his purple mask off of his shoulder. "I took apart the alarm clock I made last month and tried to construct a device to track down Mikey but it sort of...exploded."

Leonardo couldn't hold back his laughter.

"It's not funny!" Donatello said. "If I hadn't been wearing goggles, a microchip would've hit my eye."

"Safety first, then," said a new voice. Leonardo sat upright and looked to see Raphael leaning on the wall near the entrance. He came over and shoved Donatello out of the way to sit in his spot. Donatello playfully fought against him and Raphael was covered in grimy handprints before he gave up.

"Splinter back with that annoying twerp yet?"

Donatello piped up. "Raphael says he's sorry, too."

"What? Donnie, did you even hear what I just said? We're better of without Mikey."

"Whatever, Raph. You think by acting tough you can hide your feelings. Don't deny it, I can translate anything you say." The tall turtle smirked.

Leonardo smiled and held Raphael back before he launched at his brother. "So, now you can speak English, Japanese, and Raphael?"

The conversation fell into happier subjects, but ten minutes later as Donatello argued over the plot holes of Space Heroes with Leonardo, they were interrupted by Splinter walking into the room.

"Oh good, Mikey's back!" Raphael cheered, leaping up and rushing towards his father.

"See?" said Donatello smugly. "I told you he cared."

Splinter knelt down and took Raphael by the shoulders. "No, my sons, I did not find your brother." He softly pulled his hood down and gave Raphael a sympathetic expression. Donatello and Leonardo wandered over, their expressions crestfallen.

"But, Sensei, how far could he have gone?" Leonardo asked. "We can still keep searching! We can still find him soon!"

"Leonardo, New York City is a very big place. I don't know how long it will take for Michelangelo to be reunited with us." For a moment, Splinter wondered if would ever happen, but he was determined to hold out hope. He had noticed before that Michelangelo had always been the natural martial artist of the group but was so easily distracted. Maybe being in such a hostile environment would awaken the skills his son would need to live. "Your brother is strong, Leo."

Leonardo turned around and peered once more at the grate above them. Its four small slits were the only thing that had given him a real view of the world above, and in his mind New York City was never very big. But now it felt like a gigantic monstrosity, a maze that his brother was lost in.


	4. Chapter 4: Freak

I should clarify some details on this story. It is based mainly on the 2012 Nick TMNT show, but it will also be different. Throughout the story, it will be obvious that this story follows a different storyline than the TV show, and the characters will be slightly different. Pretty much, this story is it's own thing.

* * *

><p>CHAPTER 4: Freak<p>

Michelangelo groaned laboriously, his eyes opening to a blurry gray room. His whole world shuddered under his feet, and a low groan coming from everywhere at once increased the pain in the headache Michelangelo was experiencing. He felt confused and exhausted in this small, blurry, shaking room. is headache and the woozy feeling of just emerging from consciousness tempered down the pure terror he should be feeling now in this unfamiliar environment.

He realized he was sitting on a cold metal bench and as he tried to shift into a more comfortable position, his arms and legs were restrained by metal cuffs chained to the wall. Michelangelo desperately tried pulling at them but they didn't budge. Tears began to fall from his dilated blue eyes. What was going on?

"You will get used to the chains, soon enough."

Michelangelo's eyes shot to the corner across the room. There sat a man with neatly groomed black hair and a blank, unreadable expression, sitting ruler straight on the bench. Michelangelo hadn't noticed him because he was so quiet and his gray suit blended in with the walls. The man looked calmly into the turtle's eyes as Michelangelo stared him down. As Michelangelo glared at him, his blurry vision cleared and he saw the man clearly.

"Where am I?" Michelangelo screamed. He leapt at the man but was again held back by the tight chains. Suddenly the room bumped and he dropped back onto the bench. He felt like he was moving at a high speed but was certain the room wasn't. The man continued to peer curiously at him. Michelangelo noticed an oddly shaped bulge in his side pocket that the man seemed to keep his hand near at all times. "WHERE AM I?"

"No need to shout," the man said unblinkingly. "You are in the back of a van. Do you know what a van is?"

Michelangelo shook his head. He kept his eyes trained on the man, analyzing his every move.

"To put it simply, it is a device capable of transporting you to another place. I'm sure you've seen them on the streets. Anyway, you are here because, when that woman called the police after she saw you with her son, we intercepted the message and responded first. We are taking you where you belong."

The young turtle took a moment to process everything the man had said. That disaster with the boy named Tyrone seemed like it had happened weeks ago now, but it still hurt just as much. He had been called a monster. As soon as Tyrone had seen him, he had feared him. What place in the world was there for someone like him? All that he could think of was his home in the sewers, but he doubted the man was thinking of that same place. "Where am I going?"

A hint of a smile crossed the man's face, his first show of emotion. "That shall be a surprise. But once we have you there, we can learn so much from your genetic makeup, information that we will build an empire upon, figuratively speaking. You, a freak to society, will eventually change lives."

Michelangelo's head shot up. "What did you just call me, dude?"

The man cleared his throat. "A freak. That is what you are, in loose terms. Scientifically, you would be called a mutant."

Growling in frustration the way Raphael sometimes did, Michelangelo turned away from the man and observed his surroundings. The four gray walls had a small gap in the front, where a gray-tinted window was set. Michelangelo couldn't see anything through it, so he looked to the wall at the other end of the room. It was latched closed and looked like two doors. Sitting beside it was a red bag. Michelangelo had noticed it earlier but it hadn't been important. Now, with all the bumps and jolts the van was taking, several things had slid out of the unzipped top.

There was the red scarf that Tyrone had given him; it must have been taken off of Michelangelo's neck after he'd been knocked out. Next to it were his two sets of nunchaku. They were almost never this far from Michelangelo, and he felt different without them, more vulnerable. Beside the weapons sat his orange mask, strewn haphazardly across the floor like it meant nothing. Even the map of the city Michelangelo had stolen from some tourists was here, zipped tightly in a plastic bag.

Michelangelo felt the van slowing, and then it stopped, but the odd roaring sound continued. The man looked irritated that their journey was delayed and muttered "Stupid traffic lights," under his breath. He looked up to Michelangelo. "So, tell me, are there are others of your kind, freak?"

"Stop calling me that, stupid head!" Michelangelo snapped.

The man rubbed his temples. "Let's make a compromise. I'll stop calling you freak if you don't call me 'stupid head'. Deal?" Before Michelangelo even answered, he continued. "Now answer the question. Are there other turtle-human hybrids like you? Do you know any other mutants, any at all?"

Michelangelo paused. Truthfully, yes, besides him there were his brothers Donatello, Leonardo, and Raphael. He supposed Master Splinter would be considered a mutant as well. He thought of them, chained up like he was, called freaks and taken away in a strange van like this one. Even someone like Splinter could be taken down if there were enough people, and Michelangelo felt that whoever owned this van would have the resources to do so. "No,_ I don't know_ any other mutants, freak. I don't know anyone."

The man ignored him. As the van jerked forward again, he stood up and leaned low over Michelangelo, clouding him in shadows. Michelangelo suddenly felt small and powerless, and wanted his nunchaku with him more than ever. "If you are so truly alone, my friend, how do you speak such fluent English? You seem fairly sharp, for someone who lives completely solo."

"I live on the streets, man," the turtle lied, trying to act tough. He looked away from the man's eyes and focused on the latched doors. They were shaking and shuddering, inefficiently held together. Michelangelo nervously pressed his chained hands against the wall behind him, struck with a sudden idea. It was desperate, but he put it into action, rubbing his palms on the wall, loosening the bandages that were wrapped around his wrists - meant to soften the impact of combat on his arms - glad he hadn't taken them off after leaving his family.

The man nodded. "The streets, huh." He grabbed the red bag in the corner, gathering the items that had fallen out, and held out the nunchaku in front of Michelangelo. "Then explain where you got these? They seem to be in fairly good condition, very well made. Not the type of nunchucks you would find on the streets."

Michelangelo felt a small, heavy object drop into his hands tied behind his back and knew his plan was working. He would just need a little more time, so he began to stall. "Those things? Dude, I stole them from a dojo. Easy. But I still don't know how to use them." He fingered the object in his palm, keeping his eyes on the man. "Any more questions, freak?"

"Remember our deal. No name-calling." As the man rummaged for more evidence in the bag, which seemed fairly empty, Michelangelo noticed that gray letters on the side of it said "TCRI". He felt the van shudder to a stop again. Perfect! The shadow of a man leaned into the gray-tinted window across from the doors and said,"We have almost arrived, sir."

"So what's TCRI?" Michelangelo asked casually, nodding at the letters.

"Your new home." The man peered down at the letters. "I'm surprised. I didn't know you could read." He took a step back, looking Michelangelo over. "What other tricks can you do?"

"THIS!" Michelangelo leapt to his feet on the bench, pulling the chains taunt. He threw the small knife that he'd slid out of the bandages on his wrist.

The man dodged; the knife embedded itself in the metal wall behind him. He reached for the bulge in his pocket and pulled something out. It was a shiny black device with a hole in the front, odd but terrifying with the color of death and pain. Michelangelo recognized it from a movie he'd seen a long time ago and was fairly certain what it could do, and the kind of excruciating pain it could cause. He paused, and the man continued to hold the gun steady, aimed at his face. The man, his once straight hair now wild, turned to the gray-tinted window. "I thought you checked the specimen for weapons? You said it was safe!"

"Hey, I was pressed for time!" shouted the blur out of the window. "TCRI told us to be as fast as possible. I found his nunchucks, at least. How many other weapons can he have on him?"

"Oh yes, you found the nunchucks _strapped to his belt._ Truly, a discovery for the ages," the man said in exasperation. Brushing it off, he turned to Michelangelo, who was still staring - terrified - at the gun.

"Thought you could get away, huh? I'm surprised you even got that far." There was a click in the gun and Michelangelo flinched. "Don't make me do this. You are valuable to us. With us, you can change the world."

"For good or bad?" Michelangelo smirked, standing as tall as he could on the bench as the chains held him down. "I'll never obey you!"

The man tisked sympathetically. "Wrong word choice, my friend. Now we'll have to find another mutant to replace you. You are too wild...Any last words?"

"You're a freak!" Michelangelo shouted. He pulled his other arm tight against the metal cuffs on his wrist and the other small knife he stored dropped inconspicuously into his left hand. One more chance.

"Stupidhead!" the man retaliated. Just as he pulled the trigger, Michelangelo's second knife collided with his hand. He jerked in sudden pain and the bullet flew through the air. Michelangelo dodged and the bullet hit the nails holding the chain of his left arm into the wall. Before throwing his first knife, Michelangelo had already popped two of the four nails loose and the gunshot was enough to break it from the wall.

"NO!" shouted the man, who was on the floor covering his bleeding hand. He reached in vain for his gun, which had skidded across the floor. "This escape attempt is futile. You will not last much longer out on the streets! It's a miracle we only found you now!" He words echoed in the small room like a death sentence.

Suddenly the van screeched to a halt. Through his pain, the man called out to his driver, but there was no reply. A new, frightened expression grew on his face and he pushed himself to his feet. He hurried to his gun.

Michelangelo spun his free arm and the loose chain spun around it in a wide circle, beginning to twist around his wrist. He jerked his arm at the man and the heavy chain collided heavily with his head. "Booyakasha!" The man screamed and covered his face, falling unconscious to the floor.

The room began to shake again, but not like it did when the van was in motion. Someone was pulling on the latched doors. Michelangelo pushed his fear to the back of his mind. With one chain free, he was able to stretch far enough to grab his bag full of his possessions. He clumsily tied his mask over his blue eyes once more and tucked his nunchaku into his belt, already feeling braver and more prepared. After hesitantly wrapping the red scarf Tyrone had given him around his neck, Michelangelo grabbed his small knives - one in the wall and the bloodied one on the floor. Tucking one safely back under his wrist bandages, he began to pry at the nails holding the other chain into the wall.

The shaking of the room had turned into pounding, and there were muffled shouts on the outside of the van. Suddenly the latched doors swung wide open and Michelangelo eyes squinted at the sudden brilliance of the sun. He saw three men standing in front of him on the empty street, like shadows outlined in the bright sunshine. As they clambered inside, Michelangelo suddenly was so tired and shaken about what had just happened that he didn't question them as they broke open the cuffs on his wrist with a strange white device.

"Who are you?" Michelangelo asked.

One of the men, tall with lanky black hair, scooped the small, exhausted turtle into his arms. He was dressed in black with a long purple tattoo running down his arm. "Don't worry, kid. You're safe now." The three men leapt out of the van with him, slipping into the shadows. Michelangelo watched the white van disappear in the distance, sitting in the middle of the empty street with ominous black smoke escaping from a dented hood.

The small turtle was suspicious of these three men but he knew he wouldn't be able to escape them if he tried, especially since he had already exhausted himself. But whoever they are, he knew that they were far safer than the mysterious men in the white van.

* * *

><p>Splinter's eyes snapped wide open, his brown eyes absorbing the bright light of the dojo, so off putting after over an hour of deep meditation. A deep gasp escaped him. Suddenly, he heard light footsteps and turned to see Leonardo, Raphael, and Donatello wander into the room.<p>

"Sensei, you're done meditating!" said Donatello, smiling.

"Could you connect with Michelangelo?" asked Leonardo with a puzzled expression, having a minimal understanding of meditation as a six-year-old.

Splinter ran a hand over his forehead and stood up. "Yes, my son, but it was not a strong connection. Michelangelo has been through much. His spirit was ebbing."

"What does that mean?" asked Donatello.

"It means we will have to look harder for him. He has fallen far and has no doubt already been through much. My sons, we will have to dedicate ourselves very much to bringing Michelangelo back."

"How long will it take?" said Raphael.

Splinter shook his head. "I do not know. Weeks, months, perhaps longer…"

Donatello looked shamefully at the ground. "This is partly my fault. I should have been nicer to Mikey. I'm a horrible brother. Will he want to come back?"

Raphael put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "We'll make sure he knows we're sorry."

Leonardo took a step forward, holding up a fisted hand, determination on his face. "We'll do it, Sensei. We'll find Michelangelo again, no matter how long it takes!"

Splinter couldn't help but let a small smile cross his face, impressed at the conviction and bravery of his young children. They would always be his sons, even Michelangelo, who could be gone for a long, long time.


	5. Chapter 5: Nine Years Later

CHAPTER 5: Nine Years Later

"No, please, no!" Desperately, vainly, the man tried to block the fist coming towards him. It connected with his gut and his body screamed out in pain. He hit the counter and stumbled to the floor, gasping for breath. He rubbed at his blood-drenched nose. As he put his hand back on the floor, he felt a prick of glass and knew it was his pair of glasses, the black lens snapped.

The Purple Dragon rubbed his hands on his black jacket, casually, nonchalantly. This was just work for him, the same as sitting in an office, and the reality of what he did had long since seeped from his consciousness. Quickly, he grabbed the man from the floor by the cuff of his shirt and held him in the air. "Changed your mind yet, Murakami?"

"Please! I cannot afford the price you ask. I've been paying protection money to the Purple Dragons for years, but now it is too demanding." Murakami felt behind him for behind the counter, for some connection to the ground that he could not see through his blind eyes. The Purple Dragon dropped him back to his feet and Murakami heard the faint prickle of his knuckles as he tightened his fist.

One of the other gang members spat on the floor of the noodle shop, smirking. "You'll regret that, Murakami. Your brain is as useless as your eyes."

All Murakami saw was a deep blackness, all he had seen for twenty years, but he had learned in those years not to rely on the sight he did not have. As he felt the motion echo through the floor, the deep breath and beginning of a shout, he ducked the punch and even dared throw his own. The Purple Dragon caught it easily and folded his fingers tightly over his fist.

"That's it, Murakami."

The blind man felt the four gang members in the room step forward, closing in on him. Something collided with him - a mass of muscle and sweat - and he was pinned to the wall. "Hyaaa!" He prepared for the punch that he knew was coming.

"Stop."

The words were soft, almost a whisper, but the instant they carried into the noodle shop everyone fell still. The Purple Dragon let go of Murakami and the old man breathed a sigh of relief. He recognized this voice. He heard it often.

"Oh, man! Oh, man!" hissed one of the Purple Dragons in a terrified voice.

Fong, the tall, lanky member of the group, turned to see a mass of black drop down onto the pavement, in front of the open doors. Slowly, the form straightened up and Fong saw the white eyes illuminating the shadows under the black mask. The bare, green feet stepped calmly into the shop. Most of the form was concealed by a long, leather black jacket, and under the hood an old red scarf twisted around to conceal the lower part of the face.

As this person stepped farther into the shop, the four gang members dropped back, as if scared. Murakami felt the new presence kneel in front of him, arms resting on his knees, holding a different type of nonchalance than the other gang members.

Despite the ominous silence and tension, Murakami couldn't help but be calmer. "And who do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

The metallic whoosh of metal and Murakami knew that there was a knife in his face. "You will pay, man," said the voice, light for someone so intimidating but with a sort of forced deepness.

"Definitely."

"I'll come by to pick up the payment this time tomorrow. Have it ready."

Murakami nodded and the knife disappeared. The other gang members seemed awed as this mysterious figure stood up, piercing them with his bright blue eyes. "All right, you all heard the man. Now get out!"

"Right, boss!" stuttered Fong, and he and the others scrambled out of the noodle shop, tripping over stray chairs and tables they'd thrown about in the struggle. Their footsteps echoed on the pavement of the New York City backstreet, and when they faded away under the distant noise of the ever bustling city - the city that never slept - the remaining gang member leaned over and helped the blind man to his feet, grabbing his hand and pulling him up gently. As Murakami stood and drew his hand away he felt the presence of bills of money slide into his palm.

"Two-hundred dollars, Murakami," said the voice. "I can pay the extra cash they demand this time, but not again." The voice had dropped its forced deep tone, revealing its true sound, the sound of an innocent soul pushed to its limits every day.

The money felt dirty. Murakami could feel the blood that had been spilt to get it, the earnings of a petty mugging or even from a protection payment like those he was forced to pay, in order for the gang to not attack him like they had today.

"I've got to go."

Murakami knew who this was. He had known the second this person had dropped into the shop, even before he had spoken. Never would Murakami have predicted that his friend would be involved in a gang. But, then again, he had never wondered who this person truly was; they were merely occasional friends, exchanging conversations but never delving into each other's identities. Murakami never even pressed for the details of what Michelangelo was exactly, but he doubted Michelangelo even knew that Murakami knew he wasn't human.

"You never did tell me who you were, Michelangelo" said Murakami as Michelangelo opened the door.

A deep sigh. "I'm second-in-command of the Purple Dragons, as of this week...You can call me Freak."

* * *

><p>Later that night, as a few stars struggled to shine through the murky, light-polluted sky, Murakami carefully stepped over the glass pieces littering his shop's floor and the things thrown everywhere and opened the door. Leaning against the wall sat the person he had learned to expect visits from for the past few years.<p>

"Konnichiwa, Michelangelo-san."

"...Hi, Murakami-san," said the turtle, straightening up. He lowered his black hood and revealed his freckles and blue eyes, outlined in an orange mask.

"I am a little busy tidying up, but I am always willing to make a dish for a hungry friend. Give me a moment to disembed my wok from the wall…"

They did not speak of the incident earlier. Murakami treated his friend as he always did, as if the gang member who'd visited him that day had been an entirely different person, and in one way, it had been.

Michelangelo ate his food, a favorite of his - a dish called pizza gyoza created just for him - complimenting Murakami on it several times. Yet tonight he felt more reserved, and the energy that usually exuded from him was dampened, perhaps by the guilt of his actions.

Murakami's shop was still a mess, tables and chairs strewn about like a rogue tornado had ripped through this one small part of the city. But this chaos was in the periphery as the two friends strove for normalcy. But in reality, Murakami was analyzing the hesitant movements of Michelangelo, wondering who his friend - who had visited his shop for years - had become and if Freak was his real self or an identity forced upon him. All the while, Michelangelo felt guilty for even being here, returning to the scene of the crime, and his head was pulled partly into his shell, his red scarf reaching past his mouth. Murakami couldn't see it, but his bright blue eyes didn't glow with innocence anymore, and his black trenchcoat seemed to draw the attention from his childish freckles and orange mask with bobbing short ends, two parts of him battling for domination.

"How was your day, Michelangelo-san?"

Michelangelo had long ago finished his meal and had been fingering something under the table, a small, worn knife speckled with red. It seemed that after leaving the noodle shop, Michelangelo had more Purple Dragon business to attend to, being so high in the ranks of the gang as he was.

"My day was not good. You could call it a bummer."

Michelangelo stood slowly. He helped Murakami put a few tables and chairs back in their place, and took a moment to sweep away the glass shards of a broken window.

Michelangelo opened the door into the cold darkness of midnight. For years, Murakami had wondered where this turtle had gone when he left his shop. Who out in the world accepted this misfit like he did?

"Michelangelo-san," Murakami began. "I have never questioned you or feared you, and you've even become my friend though the years. And as your friend, I must ask - what is it you are getting into? The Purple Dragons! Michelangelo-san, I beg you to be careful."

The turtle hung his head. "Dude, I can't change my life. The Purple Dragons saved me and kept me alive for as long as I can remember and now it would be dangerous to leave them. And I don't know if I want to. Being in the gang is the only life I know."

"No, it is not! Who taught you ninjutsu, who strapped those nunchaku to your belt? You had a family before. Do not forget that." Michelangelo had always been proud of his martial arts skills, talking of them often with Murakami, and had even briefly mentioned once long ago that he'd had a fatherly sensei and brothers, but not anymore.

"That's in the past."

With that, he turned swiftly into the darkness, followed by the fluttering ends of his long black coat. He let the city swallow him up and disappeared in the empty street.

* * *

><p>It was time to return, not to home, but to the cold, abandoned warehouse that the Purple Dragons claimed as their Lair. The building so dangerous even the cops avoided it, with a little pay-off as well.<p>

Michelangelo swerved through the short, decorative Chinatown streets until the kinsky bright, recognizably Chinese signs and shops fell back to reveal the dark, older part of the area. Smoke-stained, long-dead factories, falling apart at the seams, hidden, ghostly secrets of Chinatown. At the heart of the area was the old fortune cookie factory, the Purple Dragon lair. Ironic that the gang that practically controlled Chinatown was based in a factory for a fake-Chinese, American product, and that their new second-in-command had his beginnings as a ninja, a Japanese warrior.

But the Purple Dragons would take whatever they could grasp, and that was what had brought them the power they had now.

Michelangelo leaned against an old factory, staring across the street at the lair with its dark windows and graffiti. What Murakami had said to him, about his old family, had thrown him off guard. He remembered them, and even to this day, still saw his brothers in his dreams, though their faces had grown murky and he grasped to remember their names. Leonardo...Donatello...and the one in red…

But he had far clearer memories of his life in the Purple Dragons…

Six-year-old Michelangelo fumbled to the ground, roughly catching himself. He turned around and peered through the darkness at the men behind him, the three who had brought him here after his rescue from the white van. One of them stepped forward, past Michelangelo, and the little turtle's eyes followed him to a man that stood before him, looking Michelangelo over appraisingly. This man was tall and muscular, long black hair shading his dark eyes. A tattoo of a purple dragon twisted around his arm.

"We found this creature when we raided a TCRI van in the East Village, Hun" one of the Purple Dragons grunted.

The man called Hun crouched low in front of Michelangelo, smirking. "Well, aren't you a freak?"

Michelangelo tightened his fist but his gaze remained on the gray, dirty floor. He was scarred and exhausted but still he seethed,"Don't call me that." He had learned to hate that word more than anything.

Hun abruptly stood and one of the others said. "When we'd found him, he already knocked out the armed man in the back of the van with him, even while in chains!"

"Look what he's got." Another man pulled Michelangelo to his feet, and the small turtle struggled in vain as the man pulled out his nunchaku from his belt and dropped Michelangelo back to the ground. The man spun the nunchaku in a whirring circle as Michelangelo glared up at him.

"He has knives, too. A couple at least. This freak is a mini-assassin!" another snickered.

Now Hun seemed much more intrigued. "Well done. Fong, Li, Chen, you will be duly rewarded." As the three Purple Dragons walked away with grins on their faces, Hun dropped down in front of Michelangelo and turned his face to his. "You, my friend, are going to be very useful."

"Friend?" Michelangelo felt hope flutter inside him. After all that had happened, he had begun to think that finding someone who even remotely cared for him would be impossible.

Hun smiled. "Now, let's see what you can really do."

Another memory, a little younger than the first.

Michelangelo took a quick step backward, trading his spinning nunchaku from his right to his left hand. He ached from the hits he'd received in the fight, but knew his opponent was faring far worse. The man that stood before him, hands outspread in anticipation for Michelangelo's next attack, may have looked short compared to the other Purple Dragons surrounding the fight, but to little Michelangelo he was a mountain, heaving with exhausted breaths.

Behind the man, whose name was Wei, was Michelangelo's second nunchaku, knocked out of his hand when Wei had deflected his last attack with a punch to the gut.

The crowd was getting restless, shouting at the two opponents to charge. This was not like the practice fights Michelangelo remembered in his old home back in the sewers, where his brothers could spend near a minute circling each other, looking out for an opportunity for a good strike, giving the action a pause, a moment to breathe and for their sensei to make corrections.

No, the fights in the Purple Dragons were all-out brawls, strike-until-you-hit-something fistfights. In the Purple Dragons, there was a mixture of kung fu, taekwondo, jiu jitsu, and plain street-smart skills, but no one in the gang fought like Michelangelo. No one was a ninja.

Finally, Wei launched forward, rumbling towards the little turtle. Michelangelo easily slid through his legs and desperately launched for his fallen nunchaku, as Wei changed course to follow him. His fingers slid around the weapon and he jumped to feet just fast enough to leap backwards over Wei with a strong kick to the man's face. He hit him next with his nunchaku and sent the man staggering.

Wei fell, grabbing his nose where he'd been kicked, and Michelangelo landed with a small stumble. The crowd roared and there, in the middle, silently stood Hun, his chin resting thoughtfully on his fist. He smiled as Wei remained on the ground, groaning in pain.

Michelangelo felt bad for hurting Wei, but if he hadn't defended himself or attacked, it would have been him lying on the ground. It had been two weeks since Michelangelo had been brought to the Purple Dragons and, after days of practice and pretend-fights, today's fight was his chance to really show Hun - the Purple Dragon leader - what he could do. Making himself useful was the only way they'd let him stay and Michelangelo had no where else to go, no way to find the home he so missed.

Hun approached him as the crowd dissipated and put a hand on his shoulder. "Well done, turtle. You'll go places in this city."

Michelangelo's mind flashed to a very clear memory, only from the beginning of this week. The exhilaration and uncertainty that he'd experienced was still fresh in his mind...

Michelangelo's eyes were narrowed, his hood pulled over his red-scarfed, orange-masked face. This was the frightening persona he kept up around the gang. As he walked through the fortune-cookie factory, the crowd separated to let him onto the stairs. He climbed to the second story, with an overlook to the shambles of the old production line. Standing against the metal bars of the overlook was Hun. In the years since Michelangelo had met him, a few gray streaks had marred his otherwise shiny black hair, and he'd gained a few scars, but mostly he'd grown stronger and bigger to match the power he'd gained. Michelangelo was lithe and compact, Hun was all bulk.

His hand gracing the edge of the nunchaku on his belt, Michelangelo stopped next to Hun. He looked around, paranoid - no, prepared - for any surprise after years of living in the dredges of New York City. Lastly, he looked down to the crowd below, gazing up at him. They reached the back wall of the lair.

Hun suddenly lifted Michelangelo's hand into the air. "Purple Dragons, I am proud to announce your new second-in-command! Michelangelo, the Freak!"

Michelangelo even still cringed inwardly at that word. But he'd long since accepted that it was all he was, a freak.

* * *

><p>Michelangelo opened his eyes to the present. He stepped across the street, already pulling off his stifling black trenchcoat, stuffing his old red scarf into its pocket. He opened the door and chucked the coat onto a table nearby. The lair of the Purple Dragons was one of the few places where he could drop his disguise that he wore to hide his appearance, and to scare his enemies.<p>

The factory was full of people. The games of pool, the sparring, drunken fights, and everything else paused as he walked in, but quickly resumed when Michelangelo simply shrugged to the people staring at him, no orders to give them. As he walked through the factory, no one made eye contact with him, and they forced their eyes not to stare at his green skin and his shell, still surprising and weird to them.

Michelangelo had no one besides Murakami that he could call a friend, so he simply strode into a dark corner, grabbing his orange MP3 player from on top of a table as he dropped into an ancient couch falling apart at the seams. He pulled open a comic book and skimmed the words, songs pouring through his earbuds and silently stirring his emotions, until the lair began to empty out, the gang members heading home in the dead of night.

Very few people stayed in the lair at the end of the day. Only Hun and a couple members who were runaways or homeless. Then there was Michelangelo, who had never known a decent home in his fifteen years of life - sewers or an old, grimy factory. He had been nearly raised by the gang, mostly Hun, who all taught him their fighting skills - kung fu, jiu jitsu, karate, boxing, and countless others - until they all merged with his ninjutsu to become a helter-skelter, thrown-together, scruffy style. Still, Michelangelo was the fastest, sneakiest member of the Purple Dragons, weapons constantly concealed on his body - in the bandages on his wrist, inside his coat, even a few shuriken he hadn't lost yet stored in a pocket on his belt. Right now he fingered one of them, gazing at his reflection against the black circular design that he knew to the crest of the family he once had so very long ago.

Sure, the Purple Dragons would teach him how to fight, but they wouldn't dare talk to him. Michelangelo even had to fend for himself most days, find food himself (pizza became his favorite food mostly because it was so easy to find in the city), and fight his own fights, but they provided him with a place to sleep. Yet he had no home.

The MP3 player fell out of his hands as Michelangelo fell asleep, and in his dreams he saw his brothers again, the little bits he remembered of them. He couldn't even remember how he'd lost them in the first place.


	6. Chapter 6: The Sharpness of Reality

**I apologize for this chapter taking so long. It was by far the hardest to write of this story, so far, and I wanted to do my image of this story justice. Let me know how I did with this chapter.**

* * *

><p>-The Sharpness of Reality-<p>

Splinter's eyes snapped open and the image of his young son Michelangelo, so clear in his mind that he might actually be there in front of him, his six-year-old self caught in time and preserved, slowly faded from the rat's vision like a ghost. Splinter sighed, partly relieved, partly in grief-stricken pain. He looked to his sons, meditating peacefully around him.

Over the years, Leonardo had grown tall - rivaling Donatello in height - and still remained the confident and brave leader, an image he had tried to live up to so much in his younger years. As he meditated, the turtle didn't make a sound, his breathing undetectable. He gave the impression that he was a master at this.

His brothers sat next to him. Raphael - short and muscular - kept his eyes were shut tight behind his red mask as he forced himself to focus and not fall asleep. Beside him was Donatello, the tallest of the group with wide eyes and slight gap in his front teeth. Donatello's bright brown eyes occasionally flickered open, unable to focus on this meditation activity that to his scientific mind seemed less important than the inventions he could be tinkering away at.

So it was Donatello that noticed that his father had emerged from his meditation. The rat looked disturbed and his eyes were wide. "Splinter?" the turtle asked hesitantly, his mouth slightly agape in anticipation for what his father would say.

Leonardo's blue eyes opened immediately to the brightness of his surroundings in the dojo, and peered curiously at his sensei, who was still regaining himself. He shook Raphael, who had begun to snore, and the brother woke in shock, almost reaching for his sai.

Splinter's grief had grown exponentially through the years about the son he'd lost. It was all his fault as a parent, he told himself constantly, that he'd let Michelangelo become unhappy enough that he ran away. The grief still cut deep inside him like an invisible knife, in his mind a pain as deep as the loss of his infant daughter Miwa in a fire years ago. He took a moment to regain himself and brush his guilt away.

No one moved as Splinter opened his mouth to speak. "He's still alive."

* * *

><p>"You've got to admit, Leo, little Mikey's a survivor," said Raphael as they roamed the dark streets an hour later, the cold air snapping at their faces. Wind spun around them, racing through the crowded alleyways, blowing trash and old newspapers at their feet. Donatello clung to the map of New York in his hands, which was dappled in a large amount of red X's from top to bottom.<p>

"How could we possibly ever find Michelangelo?" said Donatello. "Splinter never did, and we've been coming to the surface for six months and we still haven't." He gestured at the map of New York. "All we've done is eliminate places he isn't and wouldn't be at, and we have no idea where he actually is!"

Leonardo didn't answer. He glanced into an alleyway as they passed.

Raphael rolled his eyes. "Kind of makes me wonder, has Splinter been lying when he says he can still sense Mikey's spirit? You're almost as good a meditator as he is and you can't find him. For all we know, Mikey could be -"

"Stop!" Leonardo growled. "He's alive! You'll see. Both of you can give up and forget about him but I'll never stop looking." He leapt onto the fire escape in the next alleyway, clamboring up it ahead of his brothers to the roof. Above them a few stars struggled to shine through the bright city lights, but the moon was so big and bright it seemed to only be a few feet above them. Leonardo made to run.

"Leo, hey, wait up!" shouted Raphael, grabbing his brother's shoulder and jerking him around. "The last thing I want is for Mikey to be dead. You're not looking for him alone."

Leonardo huffed. "Well, the way you complain about searching for him, that's hard to believe. You two were the ones who ran him off in the first place."

Donatello stuttered in shock. "We were six, Leo!" Raphael growled in indignation and walked away to look over the edge of the building. They were in Chinatown and the bright lights from the better part of the area shined from several streets away - in the busy, sleepless area that they knew to avoid - slightly lightening up the dead avenues the turtles prowled.

In the distance, the opposite direction of the busy area, there were loud shouts of pain and profanity mingled with the clashes and bangs of guns and other weapons. These were the unmistakable sounds of a gang fight.

"Think we'll get to smash some Purple Dragon heads tonight?" Raphael grunted, pulling his sai out as he leapt onto the next building, heading towards the noise. "I've got to get Mikey off my brain."

* * *

><p>Michelangelo groaned, staggering slightly. The member of the small rival gang cackled and swung the crowbar again at the turtle's back.<p>

With a whoosh, Michelangelo's hand shot up to catch it mid-swing. With a tug it flew from the man's hand and the other members of the Purple Dragons - standing behind Michelangelo - had to quickly dodge it as it wildly flew onto the street from the alleyway. Next, the turtle aimed a powerful kick and sent his opponent flying into the wall.

As the rival gang members gaped, Michelangelo straightened up, casually cracking his neck. "Anyone else?" The ends of his black trenchcoat rippled around his legs in the wind and his bright eyes pierced the dark shadows under his mask and hood. "..Or are you all cowards?" Slowly, cautiously, he pulled out his nunchaku and let them hang loosely from his hands.

The leader of the gang, a burly, smirking mountain of a man, stepped forward. "I go by Zhanshi, and I'm anything but a coward."

Michelangelo snickered. "Stupid, then?" He turned and waved for his men to attack the rest of the other gang members, while he himself charged at their leader.

Zhanshi immediately threw a punch but Michelangelo wrapped the chain of his nunchaku around his wrist and thrust him forcefully to the right. He stumbled into a struggle between a Purple Dragon and a member of his gang. He pushed them away and rushed back to Michelangelo.

"I know who you are," said Zhanshi, cracking his knuckles. "You're the famous new second-in-command of the PD. I've heard many legends of you. They say you're a monster."

It was too dark for the man to notice the green skin of his opponent, the small amounts of it showing, and the fight moved too quick for him to even think about observing the details of Michelangelo, such as the three-fingered hands that flew at his chest.

Michelangelo, casually holding one nunchaku tucked under an arm, smiled knowingly. "Why do you think they call me the Freak?"

The small-talk was over as quickly as it had begun and Zhanshi ran at him once more. He punched again but Michelangelo caught it, folding the man's fingers back painfully as he hooked a leg behind his opponent's and tripped him. Zhanshi spun his legs as he fell, catching Michelangelo, who tumbled down next to him.

It had begun to drizzle and the ran slid down Michelangelo's black trenchcoat as he stood. Zhanshi rose before him. Michelangelo sized him up, thinking of tactics he could use to bring down his enemy. He could use brute force, but instead find a way to use his smaller size to his advantage. He had underestimated this man in his last attack, but he wouldn't do it again.

There was a sudden kick. Michelangelo flipped backwards to avoid it, his bare feet catching him on the worn, cracked street, sliding on the wet ground. The flickering street lights were the only thing penetrating the darkness and Michelangelo knew how to use the shadows to his advantage. As Zhanshi charged yet again, Michelangelo ducked under his legs, running for the shadows of the alleyway.

Zhanshi followed and his eyes darted around, searching for his enemy in the darkness. He had disappeared so suddenly.

Something flew at him, a small blur of metal and as it lodged in his arm he saw that it was a shuriken. A ninja weapon? he thought as the searing pain finally reached him. Luckily, it wasn't deeply embedded in his arm and he plucked it out, throwing the reddened object to the side. "Come out and fight!" Suddenly a foot flew at him from the fire escape above him, hitting him hard on the face. He flew backwards, losing his balance and hitting the ground.

"Booyahkasha."

Michelangelo dropped back to the ground with a light thud. The scrabbling between the gang members stopped as he shouted at them. Even the rival gang knew that disobeying Michelangelo would bring them pain if they didn't have their leader to stand behind. Michelangelo had Zhanshi cornered on the ground, clutching at his bleeding nose as blood slowly seeped from his arm as well. Michelangelo didn't have much more to do in defeating him. He hooked his nunchaku back onto his belt and walked towards him.

Zhanshi saw the flash of a small knife in his enemy's palm, and he knew that he had to keep fighting. He flew to his feet, catching Michelangelo in surprise and hit him hard across the face.

Michelangelo stumbled, keeping hold of his knife as he rubbed his face with one hand. It took him a moment to notice that the impact of the punch had knocked his hood off of his head. Now he was exposed, his bright, oddly childish blue eyes grew wide under his orange mask. His tattered red scarf whipped in the wind.

Zhanshi's mouth fell open, and his fist was still frozen in the air. His gang members were silently gaping. "W-What... are you?"

Michelangelo growled. He charged at Zhanshi and the man was too late to react in his pure shock. Before he knew it he was slammed against the back wall of the alleyway, the small knife right in front of his face.

"Stay off of the Purple Dragons' turf, got it? Or you've got me to answer to!"

As the man hurriedly nodded, Michelangelo thrust him out of the alleyway. The man ran even before he had regained his footing. His gang followed.

Now only Michelangelo and the seven or so other Purple Dragons stood in the alley. A few looked angry, and if it were up to them, Zhanshi probably wouldn't have left the alleyway alive. But they respected their leader, more out of fear than anything.

Michelangelo pulled his hood back over his head and turned to the gang members. "The element of surprise is always a good way to win." He pulled out his nunchaku and spun it in a whirring circle. As the others laughed nervously at his words he remembered the shuriken he'd thrown in the fight and dropped down on his knees to search for it.

He normally avoided throwing his shuriken for fear of losing them, with the crest of his old family still emblazoned on their surfaces. If he lost this one, he'd only have four left, but it was too dark to see it. Still, he resisted the urge to panic. _It's only a shuriken,_ he reminded himself.

There came a wail of sirens and red and blue light shimmered off of the rain-slicked streets. "The cops are coming, Freak."

Michelangelo sighed, standing up. "Late to the party as usual. Let's disappear." With that, the Purple Dragons sped out of the alleyway, rushing down the streets of Chinatown they knew so well.

* * *

><p>"Look, they're leaving!" hissed Donatello, pointing from the rooftop to the sidewalks below, as eight figures bolted from the alleyway, splashing through puddles. Leonardo followed them with his calculating blue eyes, and saw that they were definitely Purple Dragons from the violet tattoos many of them had snaking up their arms. One man ran in front of them in a black trenchcoat, relatively shorter than the others, a hood pulled over his head.<p>

As they ran, one of the Purple Dragons looked up, probably having heard Donatello's over excited voice. Quickly, the turtles stepped backwards, farther away from the roof edge. Leonardo hoped they hadn't been seen. Donatello peeked out from behind a crest on the edge of the roof to make sure they were gone.

"Why couldn't we have gone in and broke up that fight when we got here, Leo?" asked Raphael, gesturing down to the cops now just climbing out of their cars to observe the deserted battle field.

Leonardo, for the second time this night, didn't answer. He looked behind him to see the escaping Purple Dragons, but they had gone now, disappearing into the vast city.

Donatello was watching the police wandering the alleyway with his observative brown eyes. They had their flashlights out, illuminating the puddles of rain and splotches of blood on the ground and a few scattered small weapons.

"I agree with Raph. Why didn't we break them up? We would've been far gone by the time the cops came."

Leonardo shrugged. "Donnie, we didn't have to. It was only two gangs having a petty turf fight. What would we accomplish? Besides, we don't want to barge in on every little fight or before you know it, all of the New York City underground will know who we are."

Donatello nodded. "I guess so." He turned away again, holding his knees to his chest as he sat on the slope of the roof. Raphael paced behind them, anxious to do something to drown out his thoughts of Michelangelo. He hid it, but all these years later he still felt guilty for pushing his brother away, making him go.

All Leonardo had said to Donatello had made perfect sense, but he and his brothers had barged in on many fights like this in their few months on the surface. Fighting the Purple Dragons gave his brothers practice and on slow nights searching for Michelangelo, it was something productive to entertain them. The biggest reason he had stopped his brothers from joining in on this one was because of a feeling he'd had.

Leonardo had never seen the Purple Dragon in the black trenchcoat before and by the looks of it, he was a new leader. Leonardo had wanted to observe him from a distance, to decide if he was a threat. Something about him seemed...different. His fighting style, the odd way the man in the rival gang had frozen after throwing a punch at him. Too bad Leonardo and his brothers were too far away to see all that had happened in full detail.

Suddenly, Raphael gasped and climbed over the edge onto the sloping Chinese-style roof. "Look!" he said, pointing to the policemen in the alleyway.

Donatello dug into the small pack he sometimes took with him on patrol and pulled out an invention of his: electric binoculars. He pressed them against his face and now could see the minute details of the scene.

* * *

><p>One of the policemen rolled his eyes. "Seems like another ol' turf fight, Fred. No one left to arrest and no one innocent is hurt. Let's go."<p>

"Wait." The man called Fred held up one hand and bent down on his knees. He kept his flashlight beamed trained on the object he'd seen as he picked it up. He held it gently between two fingers, observing it.

"Woah. Isn't that one of those ninja weapons you see in movies? The throwing stars?" gasped the other man.

Fred nodded. He ran his finger along the sharp edge and felt the blood dripping off of it. What would an ancient Japanese weapon be doing in a Chinatown gang fight? "These weapons probably haven't been used in real combat for a long time. It looks authentic; there's even a Japanese crest on it."

The other man trained his flashlight on the small object, watching the blood drip off of it. "And it looks like whoever it belongs to is a pretty good shot."

"Maybe the turf fight was between the new gang I've heard about - what was their name? A Clan of something stupid. The Fist Clan? Anyway, I've heard some strange legends about them."

"And that's just what they are, legends," said Fred. "Besides, why would they be down in Chinatown? That gang is centered in Japantown in the upper East Village area. They may be gaining power rapidly but they've mostly avoided Chinatown so far."

"Hmmm…"

* * *

><p>"Man, I wish I could hear what they're saying!" said Donatello, pulling his eyes away from the binoculars to hand them to Leonardo.<p>

Leonardo zoomed in on the scene and immediately gasped. "It's a shuriken!"

"Not just any shuriken. It has our crest on it!" Donatello said excitedly.

"Do you think it could be Mikey?" Raphael asked, excitedly pulling the binoculars away from Leonardo.

Leonardo looked to his brothers. In their eyes he saw a glimmer of hope, stronger than it had been in years. Despite the odds that the shuriken didn't belong to Michelangelo - its design could only coincidentally look like their family crest - Leonardo hated to dash their hope. If he did now, it might never return. "I don't know, maybe. Just don't jump to conclusions."

Raphael and Donatello shared an excited, yet apprehensive, glance. Raphael stood up suddenly. "If that shuriken is there, Mikey was too! We have to find him, before its too late." He handed the binoculars back to Leonardo and started running in the direction the gang members had ran, before Donatello grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

The policemen climbed back into their cars with the small weapon. Leonardo watched it go, wishing that he could jump down and take it from them, but he shrugged it off. "That could have been sitting on the ground in that dingy alleyway for years."

Donatello rolled his eyes. "The blood on it was _obviously_ fresh, Leo - "

Leonardo gasped with a sudden revelation, pieces snapping together in his mind. "The new Purple Dragon in the trenchcoat!" He threw the binoculars back to Donnie, catching him by surprise, and rushed to the edge of the roof as if he could still see the gang members running from the scene, as if he could still catch them. "Did you see the way his opponent froze when they were fighting? Something about the Purple Dragon he was fighting threw him off! And the Purple Dragon fought like - like a ninja...but not as good as us…Why would he be dressed like that, so covered up?"

Raphael stuttered. "Wait, are you saying Michelangelo was just in that gang fight, that he was one of them? Leo, I don't know. I can't believe that Mikey would - I was thinking that - "

"Right," Leonardo interjected, nodding harshly. He stood straight, bottling up his excitement, unclenching his fingers from the edge of the roof as he turned away from the empty, rainy street. He remembered when he was six, smiling confidently as he promised his father they'd find Michelangelo, no matter how long it took. "We'll have to do some research, find out anything we can about the new leader in the trenchcoat. No jumping to conclusions." He turned to his brothers. "Back to the Lair."

* * *

><p>Donatello bent low over his makeshift laptop, the battered device whirring as it loaded article after article that Donnie clicked on from a search engine result, with barely a glance at the titles. He flipped between several articles, the words on the bright screen reflecting on his wide eyes as he scrolled quickly. After a moment he would bring up another thing he was working on, narrowing his eyes as he typed and clicked.<p>

Their friend April O'Neil sat beside him, and Raphael was on his other side. Behind them, Leonardo paced nervously.

"Did you tell Master Splinter about your hunch yet, Leo?" She glanced to the dojo where the rat's room was. It was nearly midnight and he was asleep. She would normally be at her apartment at this time as well, but had to come after Donnie had texted her.

Leonardo stopped and shook his head. "It sounds insane, and it's just that - a hunch. We need to back it up."

Donnie eye's lit up. "Found something! This news article comes from a reliable source. Its reporting on gang violence in Chinatown." He skimmed it and deleted the page. "Nothing that sounds like Mikey."

"Dude, you're not going to find Michelangelo in a Google search! This is how we looked for him when we were_ nine_!" Raphael exclaimed.

Donatello nodded quickly. "It's truly amazing that Michelangelo has stayed so well hidden for nine years, if he really isn't…" He trailed off with a guilty expression as Leonardo glared at him, reverting his attention back to the screen.

As Donnie quickly flipped back to his other project, Leonardo said,"Keep searching. The Purple Dragons are one of the shadiest and most powerful gangs in the city. If they want some secret, we'll have to look harder."

Donatello pulled the internet up again, and deleted four tabs containing other news stories with no crucial information before he suddenly lurched forward, mouth falling open. "Guys! Listen to this!"

"What is it?" asked April, leaning over.

"This article is only a few days old. Apparently a man the Purple Dragons demanded protection money from reported to the police that he was a threatened by a green monster. He even got a blurry photo of said monster's foot as they ran away."

Raphael grabbed the laptop from Donnie. "I can't see anything in that! I bet he was fainting when he took it! That or he's just really bad at Photoshopping."

"I hear the police get tons of insane reports every day," said April rationally. "Why write an article on this one?"

Donatello pulled the laptop forcefully away from Raphael. "Good question, April. Apparently, according to the article, this report about a green monster matches a rumor that's been growing in Chinatown. Even the everyday citizens of the area are talking about the Purple Dragon's new second-in-command. The article says it started when a man was mugged by two Purple Dragons who mentioned bringing the money back to their boss, the Freak, as they got away. An odd title to go by if you haven't got a reason behind it. Until this there was no proof of anything overly suspicious about the Freak, at least to the public. "

"This is absurd," Raphael scoffed. "No way Michelangelo would ever be in a gang!"

Donatello flipped between more stories. "I can't find any other sources to corroborate that article. It didn't seem very believable, but still, you'd think there'd be more buzz on it? All of the mentions of the article are on TCRI-conspiracy forums."

"Even I'm having a hard time believing this now," said Leonardo. "The Mikey I knew would never be in a gang. It's just so….far-fetched..."

"Said the giant talking ninja turtle," April snickered. She had never met Michelangelo, having only met Leonardo, Donatello, and Raphael a few months ago after they'd rescued her and her father from a mysterious kidnapping in a white van. The authorities - and Donatello - were still trying to solve the crime, which had happened to several other people now in the Financial District and surrounding areas. None of the other people had been seen since.

"Leo, can you imagine how hard it would be for a monster like us to live on the surface for so long? It may have been a matter of survival for him to join the PD. They might be holding him against his will, even!"

"And there's still the fact that one of your family's shuriken was in the alleyway, with fresh blood on it," said April. "That's pretty solid evidence. And Leo said something about the way the person in the trench coat fought was familiar. He didn't fight quite like the others."

Donatello had flipped back to his other project on the computer. After a few moments punctuated by frantic typing and clicking his screen suddenly lit up. "Yes! I'm in!"

"What'd you do?"

"Hacked into the New York City police department crime archives." Donatello smiled proudly, his eyes moving rapidly as he navigated the page.

Raphael glanced at Leonardo behind their brother's back. "Is this a new record hacking time for him?"

"Yeah, twenty-two minutes! If you don't count the five it took to hack into April's phone and make it blare out the Happy Birthday song for an hour."

"Still supremely creepy, but I appreciate the gesture," April muttered, patting his shoulder awkwardly.

"Anyway…" began Raphael,"What are you looking for in the police archives, Donnie?"

"Well...Ah! Here's where they store everything they know about the city gangs." The entire group leaned in tightly around the screen as Donatello scrolled down on the screen. The gangs were listed in order of importance, the Foot Clan - the newest gang in the city, originally from Tokyo - followed by the Purple Dragons. As the Purple Dragon page loaded, Donatello rambled. "The PD may pay off the police force to leave them alone for the most part, but that doesn't mean the police don't keep info on them...I'm trying not to leave any traces or the cops will know the page has been hacked. Not very hard but - "

Raphael, April, and Leonardo interrupted him with a collective gasp. There, before them, were two sketches purported to be the profiles of the leader and second-in-command of the gang. The first was an angry-looking, shaggy-haired Chinese man in his late thirties, labeled Hun - a name the turtles recognized but were glad to not yet have met its owner. But what was most shocking was the picture next to Hun.

Leonardo felt that nine years had gone by in the blink of an eye as he stared into the eyes of the sketch. The irises were shaded a light gray, but memory and experience colored them a vibrant light blue in his mind, and for a moment the eyes were real, the Michelangelo the turtles knew fleshing out before them. An orange mask, blue eyes, he hadn't even outgrown his freckles!

But that was where the memory stopped and the image faded back to black-and-white, reality sharply returning. Surrounding the facial features was a torn scarf pulled up past his mouth. A black hood cast the entire face in shadow. As Raphael took in the whole face, he wondered how he had so strongly seen Michelangelo at first glance. Now he saw that the blue eyes were narrowed, hardened from years of living on the streets. The sketch was rough, a not-quite Mikey even without the hard eyes, scarf, and hood.

No one spoke. Donatello tore his eyes from the photo to see that it was modestly labeled "The Freak". The information about him was skimpy, a mention that he had barely taken the position of second-in-command and only four valid sightings had ever been reported to the cops, most of them in the past three years. And the finishing note: "There is no knowledge on the Freak's origin, where he comes from and why he looks the way he does. Guesses abound, most related to the controversial, mysterious TCRI company in the lower Business district."

April had read the information as well. She looked to Donatello and whispered. "TCRI again? I can't go a day in my school without hearing someone discussing conspiracy theories about that place."

Raphael and Leonardo were still captivated by the image of Michelangelo - it was no doubt it was him now - but Donatello managed to wrench his eyes from the screen to look at her. He remembered how he had met her, rescuing her and her father from mysterious men in a white van, who were trying to kidnap them. At first, when he had begun to solve the mystery he had dismissed any possible explanation involving TCRI; to the citizens of New York City it was an enigma in the shape of an enormous skyscraper, a blank state to blame for all the weird stories happening in the city. But could it be related…?

His thoughts were interrupted when Leonardo pointed at the very bottom of the screen, to a line of street names and numbers. "It looks like the cops do know where the Purple Dragon base is."

Before now, the Purple Dragons had been only an enemy - a gang rife with bad guys to battle and crimes to stop - but now the fight was personal. Even more personal, and, in some ways, more scary than their war against the Foot Clan.

* * *

><p>"So I see you've returned. Did that pathetic little gang agree to stay off our turf?"<p>

Li bowed before his leader as he approached, stifling his breath. On the level below, the other members of the group entered into the factory, including the Freak, hopelessly standing out against the others. They approached the stairs, and quickly Li caught Hun's eyes and nodded, mumbling something low under his breath. Hun understood immediately. He stood up and briskly stepped over to block the group coming onto the stairs.

"Freak, this discussion isn't of any importance to you. Just a boring meeting about our territory. I wouldn't want to pester you will something so droll."

Michelangelo felt his fists clench tight in his pockets. He flipped around and shoved his way back down the stairs. He felt all the eyes in the lair fall on him, eyes that usually avoided looking at him when they could. He walked across the factory, pretending to be oblivious, and settled into his old couch, glaring up at the six men on the upper level as they quietly talked.

Who leaves the second-in-command out of a territory discussion? Hun hardly even leaves this place. If anyone knows our territory by heart, it's me! he thought bitterly. Yet he was used to this. Hun occasionally left him out on meetings, even as he had rapidly risen in power in the gang, and the frequency at which this happened had increased in the past six months. Michelangelo supposed it was to make the other gang members less uncomfortable, not making them be around him a lot. The monster. The mutant. The Freak.

He couldn't remember more than five times that he'd been called Michelangelo here. It seemed to be a name that existed only in his mind and inside the walls of Murakami's shop. But maybe those were the only places Michelangelo existed anymore. Now it was all the Freak, storming his way through an unbearable life, a secret weapon no one cared about when there was no one to fight.

"I don't need this," Michelangelo grumbled. With one more haughty glance at the group on the second level, he strode through the factory and disappeared through the door into the city, letting the wind lead him far away.

"Sir, the turtles were seen again. They were watching us as we escaped the fight."

Hun scowled, gritting his teeth in frustration. He folded his arms and turned away from the five Purple Dragons. "Was it serious?"

Another member stepped forward, stammering nervously. "Well...the Freak didn't see them, but they...might have seen him."

Hun ran his palms slowly over his face, and it was impossible to tell if he was furious, anxious, or merely frustrated. After a whole minute, he looked up. "I figured this would happen eventually. I had hoped that when the Freak became second-in-command he would leave the lower ranks like you to take care of protection money and turf wars. Run the gang from the inside, like me. And I had hoped the new gang, the Foot Clan, would fully occupy the turtles' attention...But now they've seen him."

"Sir, we don't even think the turtles realized it was him."

Hun was up in the man's face in the blink of an eye. His veins bulged as he shoved the man into the wall by the collar of his shirt. "Every time the turtles and the Freak are in the same area, it is an enormous risk! The turtles can't know we have him. They will either take him or he will muster the misguided courage to try to escape us."

"Do you really think the Freak would go back to them? He's been with the Purple Dragons for nine years, sir. And he never speaks of them."

Hun growled, dropping the man back onto his feet. "Blood is thicker than water. Don't you think he'd rather be with monsters like himself?" Hun stepped to the railing, overlooking the pockets of Purple Dragons clustered through the hideout. "I will eventually convince the Freak to spend less time out in the city. But in the mean time until then, I have an alternative way to make sure the turtles don't see him."

He realized that the Freak was no longer inside the factory, probably having taken off, as he often did, to be alone. Momentarily angry, Hun looked to see the sun beginning to rise, penetrating the few windows that weren't shaded or boarded up. The turtles wouldn't be out in daylight so the Freak didn't run the chance of running into them right now.

For the past six months, the turtles had been constantly pestering his gang, dropping in on them unexpectedly. At first he had not believed his men when they told him they were being attacked by giant turtles, who they could only describe as looking very similar to the Freak, but then he had remembered something the Freak had told him nine years ago, as a foolish six-year-old, when Hun had asked where he had come from.

"I had a family, but they are gone now."

When he'd heard this all those years ago, Hun had assumed his family had been humans, probably scientists in a lab. He had also assumed they were dead - perhaps from a lab accident - as Freak said they were "gone", but perhaps he was only gone from them. Now Hun understood. His family was at least three other turtles just like him. They had been the ones to teach him to fight first. But how had they known ninjutsu? Mysterious monsters like them reminded him of the ludicrous TCRI conspiracy theories trending in the city.

The Freak never spoke of his life before the Purple Dragons. Perhaps because he didn't remember much of it. But perhaps he also wanted to protect the secret of their existence. Even if he was separated from them, he still cared for them.

And that, Hun knew, was dangerous.


	7. Chapter 7: Hello

Michelangelo lay atop a grimy rooftop, hands behind his head - next to an empty take-out box from Murakami's restaurant - as he stared at the sky dominated by the height of the buildings in the central business district - dwarfed by the Empire State Building and the graceful, mysterious TCRI - as if he was in a grassy field watching the clouds gently float through a blue sky. In reality it was getting late, but the business district, with its height and huge amounts of light - blotted out the stars and made the sky lighter than it should be at this time. Only the nooks and crannies of New York City, where gangs and poverty ran rampant - did darkness ever completely fall.

Michelangelo sighed, knowing that he would soon have to return to the darkness, back to the Purple Dragons. Not that someone like him could ever really live in the light.

The bleating of police sirens nearby brought Michelangelo back to his senses. He sat up, peeking over the edge of the roof to make sure the coast was clear. He was alone, so quickly he slid down the ladder of the fire escape and dropped into the dark alleyway.

The turtle pulled his hood back over his head and began to walk forward, knowing in this area it was stealthier to travel by the dark streets where the sleepless big city lights never reached than to leap through them on the rooftops, contrasting with the light in his black trenchcoat. But just before he stepped out of the alleyway, the turtle looked down to see a manhole cover underneath his feet.

He remembered when he was seven or eight and would still try to relocate his family by briefly crawling into the sewers on the rare occasions he was left to himself those days. But it had been no use, he could not remember what tunnels in the massive system led back home, and some days he doubted if he wanted to return. Would things be better in a pathetic sewer home with a family he could barely remember?

There was a buzz in the cell phone in his pocket and Michelangelo didn't have to check to know it was Hun, the only person who ever called him. He groaned underneath his breath and quickened his pace. He pulled his hood low over his head and didn't make eye contact as he drifted like a ghost through the nearly-empty streets.

But something stopped him, a glimpse from the corner of his eye. His head darted to the side, eyes widening as he looked upon the display of television screens in the window of the small shop. A man was turning them off in order to close the shop for the night and as Michelangelo stared, the number of screens displaying the late-night news dwindled from ten, to nine, to eight, until it was just the one in front of him.

There was his shuriken, the very one he'd lost only hours earlier! "Acting on reports of a gang fight in Chinatown, authorities arrived to only find this lying in the alleyway. It is a shuriken, commonly called a ninja throwing star, and it may immediately arouse thoughts of the FOOT clan, who - according to local legend - employ ninjutsu in their variety of crimes."

Now, just as Michelangelo had recovered from the shock and was prepared to face Hun's anger when he found out that Michelangelo had let one of his weapons become so public, something else happened.

Six other shuriken identical to his - in different conditions of usage - appeared on the screen, more than he'd ever lost. The narration continued. "It must be remembered that the FOOT clan have never been spotted in Chinatown (for reasons currently unknown) and this shuriken is unlike those used by the FOOT. It is nearly identical to these six, found in the past six months, four of them in Chinatown. Experts are currently being consulted on the meaning and origin of the circular symbol in the middle of these weapons. The question remains, who are the ninjas in Chinatown?"

The TV screen fizzled into blackness, cutting off the second reporter's continuation of the story. Suddenly, Michelangelo was aware of the buzz of his cell phone in his pocket, vibrating against his shell.

As if in a trance, Michelangelo turned and broke into a run towards the lair of the Purple Dragons, as a man remaining near the shop said,"Geez, the stories they run on the late-night news these days! No doubt the next thing will be more ridiculous fake updates on what TCRI is doing."

* * *

><p>Hun gritted his teeth as he sat in his desk, his lamplight flickering, struggling to overpower the darkness soaking into the old factory from the window. A cell phone with the other end still ringing pressed to his ear, knowing Michelangelo wouldn't answer. He was half-focused on scribbling down a letter as he angrily watched the late-night news story on a newly discovered shuriken come to a close. He shut off the television and put his cell phone on the desk, and for the seventh time in the last hour, he swore he saw something out of the window. A glimmer of white, a blur of movement, across the street. His sharp eyes couldn't catch a glimpse of whatever it was, for whenever he turned to look, it was gone.<p>

Yet this time, he caught it. But, it seemed like this time the thing seemed to want to be seen.

Across the street, angular white eyes glaring up at him, was a figure leaning against the grimy wall of another old factory. It was one of the ninja turtles that terrorized the gang members occasionally, blue mask whipping in the wind. The turtle grinned smugly as it saw the shock written on Hun's face.

Hun was nearly alone in the lair at this time of night when nearly everyone was at their own homes or running late-night crimes, save but a few gang members sleeping on the lower floor. So he was left to wonder to himself, how in the world had the turtles found the lair? Had someone led them here?

A sudden, horrible thought struck Hun and he leapt for his cell phone again, typing in the Freak's number. As it rang uselessly, he turned back to the window. Now the turtle in the blue mask was gone, replaced by a stockier one in red, sitting on the sill of a window across the street, eyes even with Hun's.

Already, Hun's mind was racing through predictions and flimsy explanations, when, after a blink, neither of the two turtles were to be seen.

He didn't see the one in blue leaning right over the window he was looking out of.

* * *

><p>"Mikey on his way! Our biologically-related terrapin-hominid hybrid is on the approach from the northwest -"<p>

"Donnie, tone it down! I know you're smart, dork!" Raphael hissed into his phone as he crouched in the dark alley across from the Purple Dragon's lair, watching Leonardo annoy and evade Hun, distracting him for the moment.

"I know, Raph. I usually just do it to annoy you."

Raphael sighed, running his hand over his face. "Any updates on Mikey's location?"

"Well...he broke into a run after stopping in front of a shop for approximately two minutes. He was watching some news story on a TV, I think. Anyway, he's less than a mile from you guys, and closing in fast."

"Call Leonardo and tell him too."

"On it," Donatello said. He pulled his custom-made cell phone away from his ear and hit Leonardo's number on speed dial, gracefully leaping from building to building as he followed close behind Michelangelo, who was running across the empty sidewalks, his hood fallen around his neck and the ends of his black trenchcoat swirling at his ankles. It felt so odd to Donatello that after nine years, the final act of locating his brother had been so easy.

The turtles had been watching the fortune cookie for barely fifteen minutes after discovering it was the Purple Dragons' hideout, and had been around to watch Michelangelo leave. Leonardo had assigned Donatello to follow him. When Michelangelo had begun to head back to it, Leonardo and Raphael had stepped out to distract Hun so that he wouldn't notice Donatello following Michelangelo when they got nearer.

Michelangelo finally slowed to a walk and Donatello slid to a stop on the sloped Chinese roof to watch him. Leonardo finally picked up the phone.

"Yeah, Donnie?" Leonardo whispered as he let his legs dangle from the roof of the factory, barely ten feet above Hun's window. As Donatello explained the details of what he'd observed, Raphael stepped out of his alleyway to continue distracting Hun, who didn't dare come out to face the turtles at the moment.

"So do you think Mikey will attack us if we just drop in front of him before he gets here and invite him back to the Lair?"

"He won't be open to it, no. He might not even remember us, Leo; he ran away when he was six...No, we've got to be cautious about this. He's not as good at ninjutsu as us, seeing as he only had about three years of training, but he's still very experienced with other martial arts, from the way he fought earlier."

"Break it to him slowly. Got it." Leonardo barely managed to keep his excitement under wraps as he saw Donatello's form come into his vision, running and leaping across the rooftops.

Donatello finally stopped and watched Michelangelo continue onward into the factory, pulling off his trenchcoat as he opened the door. He wished more than anything he could have said one word to his brother during the entire hour he'd been no more than one hundred feet away from him.

On the other end of the line, Leonardo sighed. He had glimpsed Michelangelo run into the factory from the rooftop. "Well, we got to see Mikey for the first time in nine years."

"I didn't," complained Raphael, joining in on the conversation. "Can't we just go kidnap him?"

"Oh yeah, like he'll trust us after we do that!" Leonardo scoffed, climbing down to the ground from the side of the building. Raphael and Donatello joined him in the shadows of the factory. They continued to conversation face-to-face.

"I propose that we have a stake-out," said Donatello. "We'll take shifts watching the hideout until Mikey comes out alone. After alerting the other two, we can catch up with Michelangelo and hopefully have a peaceful meeting with him."

"We can start in the morning," said Raphael, yawning. "I doubt he'll leave again tonight, and I need my beauty sleep."

The turtles gave the factory hideout one last glance, as if afraid it might disappear if they left it. Leonardo reassured himself that he'd meet his brother again soon, and nine years of pain and guilt would be as if they almost never happened.

* * *

><p>It had been a minute or so since Hun had last seen one of the turtles out of his window, when the door opened and in walked the Freak, throwing his trenchcoat on a table near the door. Thoughts ran through Hun's head like growing wildfire. The turtles had been much too close to the Freak. Had they seen each other? The turtle did seem to have an unusual look in his eye, quickly glancing at Hun. But he merely settled on his couch, turning away.<p>

If they hadn't crossed paths, the Freak would likely see them soon. Somehow, the turtles knew he was here. Hun had to take temporary precautions to keep the Freak inside, and triple-down on his efforts to eradicate the other turtles.

Hun had more than one way of doing that. There was more than knowledge about the whereabouts of the Freak's family that he was keeping from his second-in-command.

* * *

><p>It was two days until Michelangelo left the Purple Dragon hideout alone once more. Dusk was falling, the sky tinged red underneath the grayish city pollution. And Leonardo, on his shift, tirelessly waiting out of the view of Hun's window half a block away, was there to see the form, drenched in black, step silently out of the factory. Blue eyes quickly glanced around before being hidden by a black mask. He didn't make a sound, and it seemed like he was trying to sneak away from the hideout.<p>

Leonardo snuck closer to get a good look at Michelangelo, better than he had had in nine years. As the turtle glanced around, he say the faintness of his orange mask hidden behind the black, his blue eyes shining through it.

Leonardo, heart racing, was about to call his brothers and tell them the news but Michelangelo suddenly broke into a run, a brown bag slung over his shoulder bouncing against his leg. Leonardo followed, his eyes not leaving his long-lost brother as he slipped through the shadows. Michelangelo kept his eyes on the ground and sped through the gaps in the crowds as he reached the busier streets, the New Yorkers not giving him a second glance, his abnormalities quietly hidden behind a trenchcoat and some loose black pants over his legs. Leonardo silently envied how he blended in with the humans in a careful, subtle way that he never could.

"Where are you going?" Leonardo whispered, wishing deep down that Michelangelo would hear him and reply like it was nothing. He watched as his brother - it was so odd to think of this person he didn't even know being the six-year-old with which he used to play - slowed to a walk on a near-empty street, looking around thoroughly. The blue-masked turtle pressed himself tight against the wall of an alleyway, pulling out his cell phone. He clumsily texted his brothers while constantly glancing to Michelangelo, making sure to not let him disappear. It was then, without the running and the large crowds, that he noticed the pronounced limp in his brother's gait. That hadn't been there last time he'd seen him. Had he gotten injured another fight? The turtle paused a moment and rubbed his neck, looking as if he was in pain.

_Mikey's out? About time, man!_ Raphael texted back and Leonardo gaze fell back onto his cell phone.

_Are you following him? Tell us where you are!_ Donatello chimed in to the conversation.

_When do you think we can actually talk to him? Do you think he still says 'booyah kabob' or whatever?_ Raphael texted. _A moment later...Sorry, booyakasha. Dumb autocorrect._

_Splinter will be so proud when we tell him we found Mikey_, added Donatello.

As soon as he read Donatello's latest text, Leonardo paused, a thought he was afraid to fully consider popping into his head. But then Michelangelo was on the move again, and so Leonardo took off once more.

He followed the turtle swiftly through several more blocks before Michelangelo suddenly slipped into an inconspicuous run-down shop. Leonardo stared at with calculating eyes. Murakami's 24/7 Japanese cuisine?

Knowing he himself couldn't go in there, Leonardo quickly pulled out his phone once more, to call someone who could.

* * *

><p>April O'Neil strode down the street, hurrying through the busy areas while trying to not draw attention to herself, until she found herself on a nearly empty street. In the stark contrast to the usual crowd, she saw Leonardo staring at her from the roof of a building, looking strange out in broad daylight. He nodded to a building across the street from him, but didn't come down. He had explained everything in the text and had to stay out of sight of the shop.<p>

When April looked to the shop, she was at first shocked, and checked Leonardo's text on her phone just to make sure it was the right address. Murakami's? I love this place! Nervously, she opened the door.

The shop seemed empty at first, except for Murakami. The place was just as she remembered, fairly small with square bar seating taking up most of the room, booths pressed against the wall. As she noticed that it was slightly messier than usual - tables out of place, a dent in the wall - she walked far enough in to see the figure hunched over the bar. She nearly gasped but quickly caught herself.

The figure was short with a black trenchcoat spilling over the bar stool, a hood draped over his head, a red scarf covering his lower face. Most of his legs were covered with baggy, worn black pants, his feet tucked under a rung in the wooden stool and too shadowed to see person, who she'd been told was Michelangelo, was slurping the leftover juice of a bowl of noodles but as April stared, he glanced suspiciously to her. It was nothing more than a blur of big blue eyes before he turned away.

April jerked her eyes away as well, a little stunned as she settled into a booth far from him. She brought out her phone and began to furiously text Leonardo, when suddenly a voice spoke up, making her jump.

"April-chan! I can hardly remember the last time I saw you." She looked up to see Murakami, smiling widely, his eyes hidden by his black glasses. There was a small bruise on his lower jaw, making her a little worried.

"Sorry I haven't visited for so long, Murakami," she replied. "I've been really busy with school." She quickly stole a look around him. Michelangelo had finished his meal and was digging into a brown shoulder bag sitting on the stool next to him.

"How is your father? He used to come here so much and now it's been months since he's visited here with you, April-chan."

April shied away slightly, hesitating. "He still is afraid to come outside when he can avoid it. Nearly being kidnapped six months ago, with the criminal still uncaught, has made him very paranoid."

There was small clatter across the restaurant and the figure bent down to pick up a pencil he'd dropped. April saw that he had a notebook of some sorts sitting on the table.

"Understandable. It was very good that those boys you told me about came in to stop it at the perfect time. So are you still close with them? I do remember you brought one here some time ago. A date was it?" April, embarrassed, merely shook her head before she remembered that Murakami was blind.

"Oh..no, not, um, a date. Not really."

Murakami grinned knowingly. "Now, April-chan, I'd like you to meet my other most faithful customer." He turned around and gestured to the figure in black. Underneath the garish black clothing that she supposed wouldn't stand out so badly at night, she saw the figure's mouth fall slightly open in an anxious, surprised grimace. He quickly turned away once more. April still couldn't tell if underneath all that covering that it was a turtle, but really, why else would someone be so heavily dressed in the way he was, if it wasn't to hide something?

"Hello. What is your name?"

Michelangelo shifted uncomfortably in his seat, pulling his scarf up a light higher on his face. His thoughts rushed in his head, eyes darting back and forth between Murakami and the girl named April. It was nerve-wracking enough to be in the same room as a human he didn't know - staring at him nonetheless - and then to actually speak to them! Even with all he was wearing, he suddenly felt horribly exposed. Michelangelo was shocked when he heard the words leave his mouth. "My name is...Michelangelo."

The name he hardly heard anymore felt even odder when he applied it to himself, giving it the life it had been denied for the past few years. It had drifted from him, remaining unchanged while he had become an entirely new person.

When there was no reply, Michelangelo quickly looked down again to his sketchbook, touching his pencil back to the page. Almost done, and then I can leave. This girl was making him too nervous for him to stay, but where would he go? He couldn't go back to the hideout, not yet, not to the danger he would again face.

"That is a beautiful drawing."

Michelangelo flipped around, nearly dropping his pencil. There, behind him, was April. Murakami smiled from the booth she had left as the girl leaned over to stare at the sketch. It was of a sword, its blade snapped into two large pieces, laying on the small shards of the rest of the blade. Reflected in it were two vibrant blue eyes, the only color in the gray picture. The picture was so life-like that it was like the sword was real and the blue eyes in it were merely the reflection of the artist's real ones.

"Uh...thanks." He shrugged, hoping he appeared casual.

"How long have you been working on it?" April turned her eyes to his, fleetingly examining the shadow of his face that she could see.

Another anti-social shrug. "Not long." He looked to Murakami and frowned, as if angry that the cook had forced him into this awkward, dangerous situation.

April sat back, watching him work out the final details. Her mind reeled. So this was the Michelangelo that the turtles had told him was their missing brother? She looked to the windows and in the falling darkness, she saw Leonardo's glowing white eyes watching her from a rooftop, now joined by three other sets. It must be driving the turtles crazy that she, who had never met Michelangelo and never once ached for him, was the first to talk to him.

"I must go." Michelangelo suddenly snapped. April realized in horror that his eyes were looking out of the window as well. Had he seen the turtles' white eyes staring back at him? April looked from his face back out the window to see that the turtles' eyes had disappeared. Beside her, Michelangelo packed up his things, swinging his bag over his shoulder.

April was about to speak, but Murakami beat her to it. "Must you really go, Michelangelo-san? Forgive me for saying, but it is quite rude to leave April-chan in the middle of a conversation."

Michelangelo's light voice took on a deepness that it hadn't had in his small interchange with April. "Sorry, but I must go. April…have a nice day."

As Michelangelo left, the tails of his trenchcoat flowing as he stepped into the windy night, April sighed. Murakami put a plate of sushi in front of her and she quickly texted Leonardo that it was his turn to meet his brother. _Make a good first impression._


	8. Chapter 8: Too Far Gone

**Finally things heat up!**

* * *

><p>Chapter 8: TOO FAR GONE<p>

Leonardo sat atop the streetlight, watching Michelangelo stride out of the store, his wide eyes peering around. He knew Michelangelo had seen him and his brothers on the roof just a moment ago, but what did Michelangelo think he saw? To him, had it been the eyes of Purple Dragons, coming to pull him back in? He looked fearful. Leonardo had to intervene before he returned to the Dragons tonight, and the best time to do it was now. Raphael and Donatello were nearby, ready to come in if things turned nasty, but they had agreed they couldn't overwhelm Michelangelo with seeing his three brothers all at once. Leonardo, who had been on the best terms with Mikey those nine years ago, would talk to him.

Michelangelo stopped, his breathing ragged. He could hear the light patter of running feet. It stopped just as soon as it had started. There was at least one person nearby who didn't want to be seen, and it felt as if a million invisible eyes were upon him. He chose to slip into the deepest of the shadows and disappear, but just the opposite of that happened.

"Hello, Mikey."

* * *

><p>Hun was furious. He had woken up at midnight, unable to sleep with his stressed and thought-filled mind. Fists clenching the metal fencing of the second floor overlook in the factory, he saw that the Freak was nowhere to be seen. The rebel had snuck out!<p>

"I knew I should have taken action before this happened!" Hun scolded himself in the nearly empty lair. "He knows too much!"

Fists clenching and loosening, anxious to deplete his anger, he stepped away.

* * *

><p>Michelangelo's hands went immediately to the belt under his trenchcoat, pulling out his two nunchaku. "Who's there?" The weapons spun in a whir of red and yellow.<p>

His third time turning around he finally saw the figure before him. Silvery blue eyes stared at him, their owner halfway between the shadow and the feeble illumination of the distant street light. As natural and at home in these shadows as if he was painted there. Yet in the darkness, Michelangelo saw the green of his skin. He drew back and the person stepped forward.

A blue mask, the bottom of it creased as the mutant's face broke into a grin. He eyes still glowed with caution, looking to the spinning nunchaku with an odd expression. "You still have them?"

Michelangelo knew who this was, but he could hardly believe it. It was his brother. After a moment, the name reached him - Leonardo. Yet he had no idea how to react - joy, pain, fear, excitement, nostalgia for days too far gone to matter? "Leo? Is that you?"

"Yes. Mikey, it's so good to see you again. We missed you so much." A hand shot out and instantaneously caught the end of a furiously spinning nunchaku, halting it mid-spin. Leonardo looked straight into Michelangelo's shadowed eyes. He shifted a little, as if about to hug him, but stopped when Michelangelo flinched. Drawing back, Leonardo said,"Mikey...I know this is hard. It may overwhelm you. But can you tell me what has happened in the last nine years to you? I want to know."

Michelangelo was suddenly filled with an anger he couldn't explain. He pulled the end of the nunchaku out of the turtle's hand and flung it into motion again. "Do you really care? Does anyone ever care?"

"What do you mean?"

"Nine years, Leonardo! I haven't seen you for nine years...Couldn't you find me?" Michelangelo didn't know why he was shouting. He didn't even know what he was saying. Something deep he couldn't quite explain was holding him back from leaping at his brother to pull him into a hug. "...Did you give up on me? Was I dead to you? In the Purple Dragons, I've never lived, so maybe I am dead!" The ends of his trenchcoat swirled around in the wind like black tendrils.

Leonardo stepped forward. "No. Mikey, we never stopped looking for you." He remembered the simple words Splinter had told him so soon after Michelangelo had disappeared. "New York City is a very big place."

"Where are the other two? Where is Splinter?"

"Do you want to see them?" Leonardo had to force himself to blink, his eyes unable to leave his brother. Nine long years.

Michelangelo paused, and he felt one of his feet slowly slip back, as if he might make to run any second now. He couldn't take the pain of this, the uncertain emotions. Was this his family anymore? They were just mutants. He couldn't go back. Yet, on the other hand, he felt a question he had been aching to hear answered for a long time rise up within him.

"How and why was I separated from you?"

The silvery eyes grew weary and sad, finally falling to the ground. "You ran away."

Emotion was slow to come. Then it hit him like a gun and he felt pain and confusion seize him. He was vaguely aware that his nunchaku had slowed to a stop. But the weapon he'd trusted his whole life would be useless to defend him against this kind of pain. "That can't be true! It can't, dude! I would never - You left me!"

"Do you remember anything, Michelangelo?"

There was a shift and suddenly Michelangelo was nine years in the past, seeing the blurs of a worn-out memory. Flashes of a red mask, angry green eyes, a mouth opening wide in incoherent shouts...one of the few things he remembered from before he'd been separated from his one-time family. His red-masked brother, whose name he had forgotten some time ago, had been insanely angry. For the longest time he had thought it been a memory of some of his last days with his family, wondering what he had done that had made his brother so furiously shout at him. In his mind, at the end, they had hated him. He'd long thought he might have been abandoned.

But now the confusion cleared. He realized, partly from Leonardo's insistence that he had run away, that this memory had been blown out of proportion by his six-year-old mind. It had merely been a moment's fleeting anger mistaken for hatred. As he looked back into Leonardo's eyes, he saw in his mind a memory of looking at these same eyes so long ago through the holes in a manhole cover. As he'd stomped over them and ran away into the city.

Michelangelo's hands flew to his head. It was everything he could do to not drop to his knees. He had lied to himself for nine years, his mind constructing a different story to avoid the guilt of running away. The pain he'd caused to himself and his family. He wanted to scream.

Suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder. "It's in the past, Mikey. You never stopped being my brother."

Michelangelo took a deep, wheezing breath and drew away. In his pocket, his phone began to buzz but he ignored it. "It's only a memory. That does not mean anything."

"Mikey, come home, please. You can have your life back!"

There was a wall between them, nine years thick. Vague memories couldn't retie severed connections. "I have a life! I belong to the Purple Dragons! I am the Freak."

"What are you saying?"

This was too much. Michelangelo repeated to himself that he could never go back. He couldn't let himself feel the emotions, the memories. The pain and the distance. Being a Purple Dragon was nearly all he remembered. And soon enough Hun would hunt him down and bring him back to the hideout and he didn't want his brothers hurt.

"I'm saying...you're not my brother."

He turned in the blindness of watering eyes to see two forms land in front of him, practically falling in from out of nowhere.

The new form, a short turtle with a red mask, blocked his path. "Don't go! Give this a chance. The Michelangelo I know would never say any of this!

The tall turtle in purple - Donatello - stepped forward. "This can't be you, Michelangelo. The Purple Dragons, they've - they've brainwashed you!" He nervously reached out to his brother.

Michelangelo batted the hand away. "Maybe they haven't. Who I am as a six-year-old does not make me who I am for the rest of my life."

Silence.

Leonardo stepped forward. "No, Michelangelo, it is your surroundings that do. Look at what the Purple Dragons have made you into."

"_Made me into_?" Michelangelo's world turned red and he ran at his brother. "I'm no more of a monster than you!"

His fists flew in a blur, one after another, any mercy he'd once had pounded out of him in his years in the gang. But Leonardo dodged them all swiftly, not making a single move to strike at his brother.

Suddenly, Michelangelo was restrained, pulled back. He fought against his two brothers holding him around the shoulders.

"Don't make us hurt you," said the one in red. With the tone of his voice and how easily Leonardo had dodged his strikes, Michelangelo realized these three surpassed him in skill. They'd had fifteen years of training with an expert ninja.

In his struggle to break free, the hood slid off of Michelangelo's head. Leonardo standing before him saw in full detail the freckles and baby blue eyes he remembered belonging to an entirely different person. There was a couple faded scars on his face, one stretching out from beneath his thick red scarf. But there were new ones as one, dried blood running down next to his right eye, a large bruise on top of the head.

Leonardo didn't dare touch his brother, as if in fear that he would break. His brother glared at him as he gaped. "Michelangelo, you didn't have these injuries last time you left the hideout...What have they been doing to you?" He looked broken to see his brother hurt.

Michelangelo made to launch at Leonardo again, but the other two kept him in place. Breathing hard, he resorted to talking. "Hun started doing this to me a few days ago during training - going harder than I can take. He's trying to injure me enough to keep me confined in the hideout but I haven't let him do it yet. I had a hunch he was trying to keep me away from something. I even had a feeling it could be you three."

He felt the turtle in red let up on his hold, but Donatello remained tight and firm. Michelangelo continued.

"I d-don't know what I want. I can't go back to the life I had before and I only know the Dragons. Nine years I waited for you guys to find me, to save me. But as time went on, you know, I became less of Mikey and more of the Freak. I guess I finally gave up on you guys."

The turtle in red completely dropped the arm he was restraining. Michelangelo looked up to him. "Thanks." The turtle in red gave him an uneasy smile. Michelangelo wished he could remember his name, but was scared of him at the same time. In his memory, the turtle in the red mask had yelled at him. A memory that he'd mistaken for hatred and abandonment, keeping him up at night for the last few years as his real memories had faded, with a feeling that he'd never really belonged anywhere.

Donatello kept his hold on Michelangelo. Leonardo said,"Donnie, you can let go. Michelangelo won't hurt us again. It was just the shock and confusion."

Donatello let go, almost robotically. He looked down at Michelangelo, and the orange-masked turtle saw a different type of emotion in his eyes than the others had. Non-recognition and guilt…the emotions Michelangelo felt about the turtle in red, the brother he had the least remembrance of.

Michelangelo didn't stand, remaining on his knees in a defeated slump on the ground, his trench coat radiating from him in a pool of black, like a dark ocean that he couldn't reach across to find his old self. The silence was shattered by the loud vibration of his cell phone in his pocket. He didn't answer.

"I have to go back, soon," Michelangelo said. "Hun will be angry that I left."

Leonardo dropped down to a crouch and looked his younger brother in his eyes, and Michelangelo had a flash of a memory of this very brother pleading with him nine years ago, begging him not to go. Michelangelo's memories of his own past were becoming clearer, the emotional block of abandonment fading away. He realized that his young mind had made up that he'd been abandoned years ago, once he'd accepted that he'd likely never be able to go back to his former family. It was better to forget them to wallow in the pain.

"Do you want to go back to them?" Leonardo said. "Tell us the truth."

Michelangelo hesitated, mouth hanging open in thought.

Donatello spoke up, shushing whatever his brother was about to say. "I hear footsteps."

The rest of the turtles tuned in. The sound was distant but growing fast, the sound of running. There was muffled voices switching between Chinese and English. The three other turtles were lost in the language they didn't know, but Michelangelo spoke enough Chinese from his years in Chinatown's slums that he understood the gist of the conversation.

Hun had tracked his cell phone. They were about to find him. Just as this thought occurred to Michelangelo, his cell phone began to buzz once more. They were letting him know they were coming and that he would be dragged back to the hideout if necessary, on Hun's orders. The thing the Purple Dragon leader had feared most had happened. Michelangelo couldn't run, they'd see him now for sure.

"They are going to find me," Michelangelo said, bursting to his feet. "You have to go. Find me again some other time."

Leonardo nodded, quickly shaking his brother's hand. Donatello leapt onto the fire escape in the alley with barely a sound and together they scrambled onto the roof. The turtle in red, though, remained on the ground, standing right in front of his brother.

"Raphael!" hissed Leonardo. Michelangelo caught the name, mulling it over in his head. It had a very vague familiarity.

Raphael spoke to Michelangelo. "You can come with us. We can hide you from them."

"Not now," Michelangelo said, nerves on edge. The Dragons could come in any second now.

"I'm sorry that I was mean to you, Mikey. I never meant for you to run away. I can't believe it's my fault you've stayed away from us - "

Michelangelo smiled reassuringly. "There are many reasons that I couldn't and can't go home, but the fact that you hurt my feelings nine years ago is not one of them."

Raphael looked like he wanted to say more, or maybe grab Michelangelo and pull him back to his old home as forcefully as how the Purple Dragons were going to drag him back to the hideout. But before he could, Leonardo climbed back down and tugged Raphael away. "We've got to go!"

Raphael angrily broke free of Leonardo's grasp and leapt onto the fire escape, scrambling up to the roof. Leonardo gave his orange-masked brother one last somber look and leapt upwards, following Raphael.

Michelangelo watched them go with sad, watering eyes. As they disappeared over the roof, he thought they'd escaped unseen by anyone but himself, but then he turned to see Fong from the Purple Dragons on the edge of the alleyway, mouth agape as his loping run stumbled, in shock, to a stop. He'd seen Leonardo climb onto the roof in the shadowy night, a glimpse of the unmistakable green skin and shell of the gang's enemies, the blowing of the long ends of his blue mask in the light wind. It had to have been a quick glimpse, but it was enough.

Three other Purple Dragons caught up to Fong. Michelangelo was tense in fear as Fong glared at him. Fong didn't even need to explain what had happened to the others. The tension that rose like a scream in the claustrophobic alleyway was enough to condemn Michelangelo. "Master Hun will not be happy with you." They started towards him.

Michelangelo backed up. He was the best fighter in the gang besides Hun, but it was easy to tell that Hun had sent some of the other top members to catch him. All of these four were amongst the other best fighters and they had all taught Michelangelo what he know. They knew what to expect from him, they knew his style. He couldn't defeat them all, especially with his aching muscles from Hun's abuse lately.

The night seemed to get darker as Fong leapt towards him. Michelangelo tried to fight him off and didn't even see another gangster's fist coming for his face. The impact was enough to send him staggering blindly, and Fong - pulling the turtle's arms behind his back - slammed him against the wall, holding him there.

Michelangelo panted, sweating under his heavy black cloak. His head was pounding louder than his heart, and he could already feel the beginnings of a black eye on his left.

"Consorting with the enemy, are you?" shouted Wan, the largest of the group, leaning in near his face. Michelangelo struggled to break free from Fong's grip. He got one hand free and grabbed Wan's throat, gritting his teeth in grim pleasure as this man who'd always hated him gasped for breath. Finally, Wan snapped away from his grip.

Fong struck Michelangelo's legs and sent him falling to his knees. "Whose side are you on, Freak?" Wan kicked him and punched him. Blood ran into his eyes from a strike on his head.

"Hun is going to have something to say to you. Sneaking out and talking to the turtles! You never were too smart!" Wan and Fong each grabbed one of his wrists, pulling him out of the alley, tearing his trenchcoat as it scraped across the ground. The two other Purple Dragons there cackled with glee.

Michelangelo chuckled. "At least I'm smarter than you four! Don't you wonder if there's a connection between three other mutant turtles and me? Or is that just a wild coincidence?"

Fong's grip on his wrist grew stronger, letting Michelangelo lose the feeling in his hand. "Don't act like you know anything! Freak, we know more about you than you do!"

They continued dragging Michelangelo down the midnight streets, with him struggling against them all the while. The Chinatown residents knew to ignore the shouts and cries that rose in the darkness, used to hearing the violence of the Purple Dragons. The group even passed two cops on the other side of the street, but the cops ignored them with the conviction and blindness that the Purple Dragons paid them for.

Finally, they reached the hideout. They forced Michelangelo through the door and shoved him up the stairs, letting him fall before Hun. He looked furious and Michelangelo remained on his knees, in humble subservience. His whole body ached, from injuries a few days old to brand new ones.

Hun rose from his chair, as silent as death.

* * *

><p>Raphael glared at the Purple Dragon's' hideout from across the street, so filled with anger that he was shaking. Donatello sat next to him in somber, sad silence.<p>

Leonardo wasn't with them, but instead was sitting on the sill of a boarded-up window on the hideout, listening to the Purple Dragons shove Michelangelo before Hun.

Across the street, Raphael folded his arms. "Why couldn't we save Michelangelo?" After leaving him in the alley, the turtles had followed him and the Dragons back to the hideout, shocked at the cruelty with which they treated their brother.

Donatello shook his head, his eyes glazed over in despair. "Did you see those gangsters, Raph? Those four were all the toughest in the Dragons that we've fought. No way we could have taken them."

Leaning against the windowsill, Leonardo pulled out his phone and called Donatello's. He whispered,"The PD need better security," and held the phone near the window so that his brothers could hear the talking inside.

So far, nothing important was being spoken. It was merely the four gangsters explaining what Michelangelo had done to Hun. Raphael growled. "I say we could have stopped them from dragging Mikey back here! We're weak for letting them hurt our brother right in front of our eyes!"

Leonardo heard Raphael through the phone and whispered his reply. "They could have done worse, Raph. We can't fight all four of those guys and they had Mikey. If we barged in, they could have hurt him more or threatened to kill him. I doubt the Purple Dragons will find much value in him anymore since he betrayed them."

Raphael sighed in submission. Donatello listened closely to the Purple Dragons' muffled voices through the phone.

* * *

><p>Hun stepped in front of Michelangelo. He didn't kick him or even shout, but Michelangelo shuddered knowing that if and when Hun sought to punish him, it would be his own death if he fought back. By sneaking out and speaking with his brothers - the gang's enemies - there was no way they could trust him anymore, even if Michelangelo wanted to stay with them. And he wasn't sure if he did.<p>

Hun sighed. "I suppose it was inevitable that you would happen upon the turtles someday. It almost happened a few days ago and so I've kept you in here since then."

Michelangelo balled his fists. The past few days Hun had trained him to his breaking point, going harder than he could take and injuring him. Hun was trying to hurt him enough to keep him confined to the hideout until he healed, a temporary way to keep him away from the turtles.

Hun told the other Dragons to leave. Then, alone with Michelangelo, he said,"There is so much you don't remember, and so much you never knew. Well, ever since your early days in our family and since the other turtles revealed themselves six months ago, I've wondered about you. I knew there must be a fascinating story behind how you came to be, a story that connected you to the other mutants, the ones that my gang members fear running into."

"They're my brothers," Michelangelo said, speaking for the first time.

"I know. I have some friends that have told me much about you and your mutant brothers. And you must be dying to know what I do, and I'd kill to hear about what the turtles told you tonight. So I say, it's time we get a few things straight."

Hun may not be shouting, but Michelangelo had known him long enough to know that Hun was never predictable and always to be feared.


End file.
